


In the Eye of the Artist

by Noveletta14



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drawing, F/M, Family Issues, M/M, Monsters, Murder, Photography, Psychological Horror, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Repressed Memories, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Torture, Tragic Romance, Valentini Family, insane asylum, post- the evil within 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noveletta14/pseuds/Noveletta14
Summary: Stefano Valentini, former war photographer, self-proclaimed artist, and serial killer, was strong enough to survive his nearly fatal battle with his failed masterpiece. Unfortunately, unlike in the utopian town of Union, back in Crimson City his past actions had consequences that caught up to him before he had a chance to breath. His once exotic life filled with artistry and death is now spent locked within the blinding white walls of an insane asylum. None the less, he continues to practice his craft with wrinkled parchment and what ebony charcoal he is supplied with. He would never end his art, for it was a part of his soul; a soul that could not even be touched by death itself. However, he finds it rather ironic how he begins to slowly deteriorate in a place that is meant to "cure" his sickness. Maybe being visited by his failed masterpiece would give him the grounding he so desperately craved for when all others around him constantly questioned his reality. If only it hadn't been a curse disguised as a blessing, he could have held onto what was left of his sanity.
Relationships: Emily Lewis/Stefano Valentini, Sebastian Castellanos/Stefano Valentini, Stefano Valentini & Original Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	1. An Artist's Will

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Evil Within. This story will contain, blood, gore, violence, and dark themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

Red.

It was all he could see. It dripped down his face in dark rivulets, clung to his pale skin, and stained the ground beneath him as he staggered on forwards. The agonizing ache and searing burn that pulsed through his body each time he took a shaky step forwards was incomprehensible, clouds of mist blowing back into his face with each ragged breath. He felt like he would collapse any moment as he coughed and struggled to catch his breath. He would not let himself succumb to the darkness. He feared if he did so, he might never return. No, he continued through the freezing cold that chilled his bones and blinding snow that threatened to sink him under.

The tattered remains of his scarf were hastily wrapped around his neck, tugged on by the chilling wind, and his torn coat was wide open as its buttons were missing, torn threads jutting out from where they had once been. Only one of his gloves remained, though a few of his fingers were left exposed to the cold, his hands clutched tightly. In one the pieces and parts of a once-elegant camera and in the other a crippled photograph, that he fought tooth and nail for. He would not ever let go, even if his fingers froze and rotted off his hands one by one. No pain brought upon him would bring him to his knees. He must go on. Must never stop through the cold and snow. He was going to escape.

The hope of freedom helped him to trudge forwards, looking back would do him no justice. He had to get out. Before he found him again. He would not let him get to him. He has gotten so far, to crumble now would be… pathetic. Yes, it would be indeed… His heart skipped a beat as his feet tripped over each other, stumbling he toppled over. To his luck, he was able to only crash his knees into the snow before hastily bringing himself back to his feet. He felt his knees quiver from the weight of his tired body and the soles of his feet screeched in pain. He was so tired. Shaking, he winced as he took another painful stumble forward, his ruined shoes crunching underneath the snow. His heart stuttered in his chest, and the blood in his veins froze to ice. A chill breeze sweeping over him, and a quiet whisper ticking his ear:

"Do you feel that? It's your lifeblood spilling onto the earth beneath you before your soul is dragged down to the fiery pits of hell."

All bodily pain left him for a single moment as raw adrenalin was pumped into his bloodstream, and he began to run. His strained legs used the sudden rush of energy to propel themselves forward with as much power they could muster, his chest burned from the chilling air stinging his worn lungs. The cold now was not only freezing but burning him from the inside out. The red was becoming a cancerous sickness that clouded his vision and drenched the world around him. He could feel the storm grow stronger in intensity a thunderous hurricane, though, through the blankets of crimson, he could feel the eyes of God leering down on him, as a titan would an ant. He could not let him get to him. His body could not take any more punishment. No more bruising to his skin, beating on his head, or cursing in his face. He wanted to wretch at the mere thought; he had already, but the red that seeped from his lips encouraged him to keep it down. He would not let the demon's claws tear his soul apart. No, he would not let him get to him.

No matter how his chest burned with every panting breath, and his sore legs felt as they would snap under his weight. The snowy path ahead of him became clouded by dreary mist and glistening tears that ran down his bloodied cheeks. Maybe if he had not let his vision become blurred by his ugly tears, he would have seen the oncoming shift in terrain. It was already too late for him when he stumbled upon the patch of cold ice. His foot slipped from underneath him, and he fell, hard. His stressed body slamming full force onto the ice before tumbling into the snow. Pain spiked up his side, and the cold snow burned his exposed skin. The world around him spun in a swirl of dark red and tainted ivory as he laid collapsed in a heap, he wanted to hurl.

"Your efforts to run from the inevitable are fruitless. How pitiful you are, groveling on the ground like a pathetic worm."

The horrid sound of the voice ringed through his head, the whistle of the wind never-fading along with his ragged breath. The pieces of his broken camera scattered around him, his fall only adding to the carnage as he caught sight of a lens shard. He groaned as he struggled to push himself up, only to fall back into the snow. He could not see himself getting up until the sheen of gloss buried in the snow caught his eye. The photograph.

"I'll punish you for your insolence, you fool. I'll make it so you'll drown in a pool of your own blood gasping for air. Your death will be of God's work."

He shot up to his knees, his body screamed at him in agony, he ignored it. He winced as he threw himself across the snow, barely grazing the paper's edge as the wind began to take it away. In a mad dash, he lunged through the white powder, desperately grasping for the photograph as it danced into the wind. He had to get it back, nothing else mattered to him in this single fleeting moment of panic. Gritting his teeth from the exertion, he made one final reach using all the strength he had left in his legs. His determined attempts left him clasping only snowflakes melting in his palms and his knees crashing into the snow beneath him. He stared blankly at where the photograph had fluttered off into the night. Biting back a sob in his throat, he could only look back down, a broken piece of his camera stared back up at him, _Veritas_.

"You'll always be known as the talentless hack everyone believes you to be. No one will mourn your corroded legacy, only mock your death. You'll die a whisper to the world."

The scream that ripped from his throat was one of utter anguish and suffering that cut through the cold air like a knife. He wrapped his bruised arms around himself and curled his beaten body into the bleeding snow. He watched through glossy eyes as his tears dripped down the edge of his nose to stain the earth beneath him.

"Stefano?" he visibly stiffened at the sudden voice above him. It was not a thunder in his head, but a hum to his ears. He should have felt relief at the worried tone of the voice, but a tide of shame washed over him as he bit his lip. Freedom was never an option. Looking up, he was met with ocean green eyes of a man, standing above him, the crimson snow tearing through his body as if he were an apparition. A horrified expression twisting his features as a crumpled photograph was clutched in his gloved hands. "Look at you, you're bleeding."

Φ

The rhythmic tick of a clock's arrow. The rough texture of ivory parchment. The scent of charcoal that clung to dancing fingers. A tranquil environment for the art of creation. Create, he did. His careful hands created gentle waves and twisted streaks across his canvass with shades of soft grey and inky black from his hunk of charcoal.

"Mr. Valentini, are you listening?" the intruding voice pulled him from his reverie, though he kept his hands steady. Taking a deep breath, he glanced upwards, his remaining eye a shallow crystal shadowed by a darkened ring, showing lack of proper rest. The man across the table who wore a white coat that rested upon his shoulders stared back at him, a calm yet impatient expression across his aged features.

"To every little word you say." His voice smooth and hoarse around the edges, as a small smirk curled his accent. The man sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"If you were paying attention, you would have answered my question by now." The man gestured to the piece he had been working on. "What are you drawing?" He steadied his drawing hand and looked back down at his artwork. His smirk stretched into a smile

"I am creating art. It is what flows through my veins and gives my soul life. Do you not see the beauty of my art?" he grazed his fingers over of his piece. "It's no masterpiece compared to my real-life piece, but it is still simply glorious."

"You still did not answer my question." The man's voice firm as his expression hardened. "I shall ask you again, what is it?" A lively glint flashed in his eye as he traced the dark lines of his artwork, long slender legs, a beautifully arched torso, and a glossy lens.

"This is my Obscura. My most beautiful creation." The man raised an eyebrow.

"Your Obscura. Like a camera?"

"Why yes, a camera crafted by my hands." The man took a quick glance at the drawing.

"It doesn't look like any camera I have ever seen."

"She is incomparable to any other camera. I created her to be a creator of beauty, she took the most magnificent photos. If only she were with me now…"

"Where is she?" His smile wavered as his last memory of his beautiful Obscura shrieking into a merciless oblivion.

"Gone."

"Where to?"

"It doesn’t matter. No matter how much you try, you could never lay eyes upon her. For she is not of this world, but of another. One where I could create true art of unimaginable proportions, and creations only a god could imagine. It was heavenly.”

"Ah, so it— she is from the other world, similar to the 'Guardian.'"

"Certainly, but I cannot go back, unfortunately. It is gone, just as my beautiful Obscura."

"Why did you decide to draw her? To reminisce perhaps."

"No, I do enough of that on my own. Her purpose was… the same as mine, to create. So, in her death by drawing her, she still continues to create from her mere image."

"Well, if you cannot create in the other world, why not create in this one as you are right now? You are a very talented artist, and your drawings prove it. It's a great outlet for your artistic tendency to create, it will be perfect for your health as well. You simply need to commit to this art form, and you’ll feel much better; and others around you will as well."

"No, no, no, I'm afraid that is not possible."

"How come?"

"It does not satisfy me, not truly. My artistic need is not fulfilled by filling a blank canvas with ink and paint."

"Then why do you continue to draw?" he could not help but scoff at the question.

"I am an artist, and an artist must always create. A true artist would not let any force interfere with their artistry. If I must change from my preferred medium to create art, then so be it." The man's eyes narrowed as he forward and rested his arms of the white table.

"I am assuming you have realized that your form of 'art' comes at a high cost. Your free will is what it took from you this time, just imagine what will happen to you in the future. You are a very lucky man to be sitting in front of me, rather than rotting away in a prison cell or worse waiting to be put to death." The man's finger pointed to the macabre drawing. "Do you still want to continue your preferred art?" His cruel smile returned as he glared lucidly at the man in front of him.

"If only I had my camera." A sigh escaped the man's lips, and he leaned back in his chair, a disappointed look in his eyes.

"I see… Looks like we still have some ways to go, but I have an idea that might help our progress. For today, however, our session is over." The man reached inside his coat and clicked a red button of a black device inside his pocket. The click of a door opening sounded from behind him, followed by a pair of heavy footsteps. The man smiled at him. "I hope you get a good night's sleep, Mr. Valentini. Don't forget to take your medicine." He smiled back.

"Oh, I won't, doctor." The heavy chains around his wrists and ankles clacked together as powerful arms grabbed him by his shoulder and lifted him from his chair. The black cladded guards gripped him tightly from each side, keeping his arms in place and no room for free movement. He tried not to mind. The guard on the right nodded to the doctor before grabbing his drawing from the table.

"Be careful with that mind you. You'll smudge it." He felt the grip on his right arm tighten. The doctor gave a sharp glare, and the guard loosened his grip with a grunt.

"Whatever you say." Under the gruff voice, he could hear the word 'freak,' he muttered, but he paid it no mind. He had been called much worse. "Move it, we ain't got all day."

He was escorted out of the room; the doctor's smile was the last thing he saw before he was greeted with the harsh white walls of the corridor. He was mortified by how blank and plain the walls were, they needed an artist's touch to bring them to life. He kept his gaze low to the floor, which was thankfully a checkered black and white, if only they hand red curtains draping the barred windows. The chink and clatter of his chains filled the hallways as the guards led him twists and turns, deeper and deeper, until he recognized the darkened hallway that ended with a door. The heavy metal door had an electronic key card pass next to it, which one of the guards swiped his keycard through. The light dinged and flashed green with the sound of locks turning before the guard pushed the large door open. What the door opened to be a room, a room that held a cell further back, with a glass pain and a metal door with serval openings that led into the cell. Two men in white garbs were in the room, standing in front of the cell, waiting for their arrival.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Valentini. We have your room all cleaned up for you." The younger man beamed. "How was today's session?"

"It went rather well. The doctor greatly enjoyed my latest artistry." He spoke as the guards shuffled him to the cell door. The guard with the picture handed it to the younger man, who held a brief look of surprise before it was overshadowed by a wide smile.

"Oh, how lovely. I'll make sure to put it with the others." The man said as he placed the drawing on a small metal cabinet in the corner of a room.

"What do you like about it?" he asked as the cell door was opened, and his ankle shackles were removed. He was shoved into the cell by one of the guards, and the door was slammed closed behind him before locking. He turned around, put his chained hands through a rectangular opening in the lower part of the door. The younger man appeared in front of the door with a wipe in his hands and began to clean his chained hands from the dark charcoal that stained them.

"Well, I think the shading is well-done, and the details on the camera are nice." The man grinned as he finished cleaning his hands and stepped back to let a guard unlock the metal restraints around his wrists. He pulled his hands back inside the cell, and the latch was immediately snapped shut by the guard.

"Why thank you for your praise, I really do put effort in my works." He rubbed his sore wrists, where the outline of the cuffs had marked his pale skin.

"No need to kiss up to the poor bastard. He can't get you from in there." One of the guards nudged the younger man's shoulder on his way to the exit.

"Don't worry, we can handle him from here." The man brushed his shoulder with the back of his hand.

"Sure, you can, David. Just don't lose a finger, alright?" The other guard chuckled, swiping his keycard through the lock before leaving the room with the other guard.

"Jackson can be such a child at times." The orderly sighed.

"He's not wrong, though." The other garbed man commented.

"Sad, but true." He watched as the brown-eyed man came to stand in front of the glass with a grin. "I put your medicine on your desk for you as always." He turned back to his cell. The walls and floor were a disgustingly blank white, but the accompanying bed with gray pillows and matching gray comforters along with a small silver desk put up against the wall bolted into the floor. This was his 'home' now. It was not his choice. He walked over to the desk and sat in the metal chair that was hard on his back. Dotting the blank space of the desk were five pills: two small yellows, two small greens, and one big red. He immediately began to organize the pills, lining them up single file, grouped together by color, starting from yellow to red.

"Why does he always do that with the pills? Is it an OCD thing or something?" he could hear the other orderly grumble underneath his breath. He chose to ignore the comment as the orderly’s companion shot him a glare.

"Just be grateful that he takes them." He began popping the circular pills into his mouth and swallow. He fought back the urge to gag when the medicine slid down his throat. He did not need any medication in his own opinion. Yes, he was 'sick,' but his sickness was one not meant to be cured. He forced the last pill down anyway; he did not have a choice. He looked back towards the men to show his medicine had been taken.

"There, all gone."

"Great, we can leave now."

"Don't leave so soon, gentlemen. We're not finished yet." He called out to the orderlies in front of the glass with a grin. "I have a secret. Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure, what is it?" the brown-eyed orderly asked. His grin widened.

"Come closer, and I'll tell you." He husked with a gesturing finger. The two men looked at each other.

"That's a terrible idea."

"Isaac, calm down, he just wants to talk." The other orderly looked skeptical and glance at the cell before quickly looking away when he made eye contact with the serial murderer.

"I doubt that's the case." He hissed under his breath, trying to ignore the intense gaze coming from behind the cell glass. "We've done our job; we don't have to listen to him."

"Technically, we have to listen to whatever a patient has to say. No matter how…" the younger orderly bit his lip in thought, "eccentric they may be. We must keep up our standards."

"Alright, but I won't hesitate to hit the alarm." The other orderly conceded, going to a panel of buttons on the far side of the room, leaning back on the wall. The younger orderly took in a deep breath and turning back to the cell. He was met with the intriguing gaze of a single icy blue eye. He took a shaking step forward and a quick glance at the surveillance camera in the corner before walking up to the glass.

"Not in front of the glass. Come to the door." The fallen artist pointed to the metal fixture.

"Is that necessary?" At the question, the artist quirked his head to the side with a smirk.

"No, but I would be ever so grateful if you did." An uneasy feeling pooled in his gut that reached his beating heart. Regardless he shifted to stand behind the door. His heart skipped the beat at the sound of footsteps approaching the other side of the door at a quickened pace. They stopped behind the door, and the sound of breathing tickled his ears. He did not dare look up, knowing a piercing gaze would meet him through the small window.

"Okay, you can tell me now," he said, keeping his voice steady. A sharp tap on the other side of the door nearly caused him to jump, as the lower slot began to jingle.

"Open this up first, and I'll tell you the secret."

"Why, can't you just tell me right now?" the tapping ceased, leaving only sound of heavy breathing to be heard in the cell. "Hey, are you alright? I know you haven't been sleeping well, is that what you wanted to tell me? Your most likely exhausted. I can ask the doctor for a different medication to help you sleep." He reflexively looked up for a response and promptly realized his mistake as he felt his blood run cold. The sharp gaze upon him, sent a spike of fear through his heart.

"Don't even think of it." His voice sounded clear as day through the door as it crept into his soul. For a moment, he worried if he should have listened to his companion as he rubbed his left hand, the ring finger showing signs of past trauma. To his relief, the man behind the glass did not make any further move closer and stepped away from the door. The artist’s glare lightened, and he gave a brightened smile. "I can assure you I am fine. I don't need any more 'medicine.'" He sauntered towards the bed against the wall and plopped down with his hands folded in his lap. "My apologies for disrupting your schedule, I can tell you at a later time. I know you’ll quite enjoy it, but I would like to rest now, if that is alright with you." Moving away from the door, the frightened orderly struggled to find his voice as he fumbled with his words.

"O-Of course, have a good night." He smiled when his heart rate finally calmed, he took a glance at his partner who had had a hand placed over a bright red button on the panel, the look of exasperation clear on his face. The brown-eyed orderly turned back to the cell and the man within. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Valentini."

"Why you're welcome, Mr. Carpenter," Stefano said with a smile.

Φ

Sleep was never something that came to Stefano with ease. Unlike the talent of art creation, which came to him as naturally as breathing, entering the realm of sleep without a struggle was not gifted to him. Which is why he spent most of the night resting on his side, waiting for sleep that would never come. It got rather dull, merely lying in the darkness, waiting for the sun to rise, not that he could see it. He was grateful when morning finally arrived, and the nurses entered the room to 'wake' him for the day. His morning medication was given to him through the slot in his cell door, the guards present in the room stared him down while he assorted his pills. He read their ridged body language with ease; they were not a fan of his. Lowbrow brutes they were. The orderlies at least had the courtesy to humor him, though they were still uneducated oafs.

Though there were a rare few that met his standards of cultural intellect, they had faded away before he had a chance to hold onto them. Sadly, the Neanderthals here would not be able to satisfy his artistic needs. He could only find a small outlet for his urge to create in drawing during his "therapeutic" sessions. Which if his understanding of the staff routines was correct, it should have a occurred an hour ago. No one had come to transport him, and he could not hear any footsteps in the hallway. He was uncertain why? Was there was a scheduling issue, had a patient got out of hand, or maybe had the old doctor finally croaked? He would not mind that misfortune, but the trouble of him not being able to put pencil to paper became an itch he was unable to scratch.

The unusual slouched position he had at his desk was a testament to that. He was not allowed access to materials or paper while in his cell due to... past experiences. Thankfully while exploring his limitations within his prison, he found a frail substitute. His caretakers made sure his nails were trimmed down to the skin, but with enough force and the proper angle, he was able to make faint marks on the smooth surface of his desk. Scraping off the silver paint veneer to uncover the tarnished ivory beneath, to create simplistic yet detailed artwork. The echoing sound of nails raking against metal filled his cell as he painted the picture he envisioned in his mind.

It was one of the most agonizing ways for him to relieve himself; being denied satisfaction had led him to scratch the paint off walls and floors, fogging up the glass with his breath to draw shapes, and even as going as far as to mark his own skin. They had made sure to keep his nails short after he had drawn the first drop of blood. That did not stop him; he would not let it. Even as the remains of his nails cracked and his fingers blistered, it hurt him, but the pain was a price he would easily pay. Besides, it made the experience more exciting when the threat of ripping his nail from his finger loomed over him.

Lost in his stupor, he nearly missed the familiar beep of the electric lock, and immediately repositioned his arms as the metal door opened. He turned surprised to see the doctor come in, followed by the two guards. The doctor came in smiling, clipboard in hand, and white coat fluttering behind him as he came up to the glass smiling. So, nothing had happened to him; however, he rarely came to meet him while in his cell.

"Apologies for the delay, Mr. Valentini, but there was a change in plans."

"May I ask what plans have changed, doctor?" He repositioned himself in the chair to properly face them.

"The plans for our session. I have had an idea rolling in my head for the last couple of weeks but was not certain if it was the right decision for anyone. However, I was... motivated to make this choice, and as long as you behave yourself, I won't regret it." He calmed his breaths to still his beating heart as a rush of excitement rushed through him.

"Oh, doctor, am I not always behaved?"

"Why certainly, in fact, I believe it's time that we take a step further in your treatment. It surely must be repetitive to see the same faces every day, a new face would be refreshing, would it not?" He felt thrilled to see where this was going, the ache in his fingers fading away.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful, doctor. A new face is another key to the gate of inspiration. Certainly, much more favorable than having to lay my eyes on these brutes all day." He gestured to the guards standing behind the doctor, he could already see the ire beginning to boil in their eyes.

"Now now, Mr. Valentini, be polite." The doctor scolded through his grin. "They are here to help you as am I. I'm guessing you already put the pieces together of what is to happen today. I have decided to allow you to receive a visitor. Now isn't that exciting news?" It certainly was considering he had never received a visitor in this wretched place. Though a question raced through his mind.

"Of course, it is. However, it depends on who wishes to visit the great Stefano Valentini? I highly doubt it's an admirer, and you won't let a critic visit me with some unfortunate consequences. I wonder who it could be..."

"There is nothing to worry about. I assure you that he is quite interesting to be around. You'll like him."

"We'll see."

"We shall," the doctor glanced down at his silver watch. "Any moment now, actually. I must leave you now for today, please don't be afraid to open up to him as you do me. I hope for the best. Farewell, until tomorrow, Mr. Valentini."

"Goodbye, doctor." With one final smile the doctor left, the guards stood in place however not moving in inch. The room was left in still silence, the thrum if the vents and the quiet whisper of breath being the only remote sound in the room. It might not have been as tense if it were not for the searing glares of the guard that threatened to shatter the glass between them.

"No need to be so on edge, gentlemen." He scoffed. "Keep in mind that I am well behaved."

"Yeah, like a bitch." The guard snarked, never letting up his gaze as a smile formed on his face.

"Don't antagonize him, you’re going to cause a scene again." The other guard warned, though the other continued to smirk.

"Oh, don't me tell your scared of this son of a bitch."

"No, but you'll get our asses busted if they hear what you're saying."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself with him, Mr. Ward." He tutted with a wave of his hand. "You should pity him, really. Mr. Jackson only lashes out as he does due to his lack of unable to obtain a spouse because of his horrid brutish nature." He gave a smirk if his own. "Unlike me, who is naturally a lady's man." The burning shade of vermillion that shaded the guard's now fuming expression was indeed an amusing sight to witness. He was given a better view of the bright hue when the guard began stomping towards the glass. The other guard stopped him with an outstretched hand unfortunately before he could get any closer.

"Keep it together, Jacks. He's screwing with you."

"Be lucky that you're in there, bastard. I would rip out that eye out from your goddamn skull." The guard hissed through clenched teeth.

"I'm terrified." He snickered cruelly.

So effortless it was to rile the rage of a dimwitted barbarian. The enraged expression of pulsing veins and bared teeth, however, it would be much more enjoyable with a bullet lodged between the piercing eyes. The sudden electronic ping of the metal door caused the guards to jump back from his cell and straighten themselves out as the door opened.

"Right this way, sorry again for the trouble." The voice of the orderly flooded into the room, "If you wish to stop here, now will be the time."

"Stop? It took too damn much effort for me to get here. Like hell, I'm stopping."

He perked up at the voice that hummed with a fierce heat and an uneasy familiarity. Though no face came to the sharp tone. He knew he had heard that voice before, maybe in a dream. His intrigued peaked as a figure came into view in the doorway. Then the figure stepped into his sight, and the world around him went coldly still as a photograph. He knew that face. He knew that tanned skin over a muscular body, ruffled black hair with streaks of grey from age, and rich brown eyes that still held the same fire that blazed within them from the first time he gazed into them. Standing tall before him was his failed masterpiece.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Castellanos. Please enjoy your visit." The orderly said with a small smile as he exited the room, followed by the guards. Before the last guard left the room, he addressed the visitor. It was too quiet for him to hear, but the glare the guard looked at him with told him it had something to do with him. When the door finally slammed shut with the last person gone, he was left alone with a man that was his only tether to the world long destroyed. The man looked him up and down with a calculating glare, and he glared in return, he almost brushed his hair out of his face reflexively as to receive a better view of the man before him, but froze as he ran his bare hand over scarred tissue; no camera here.

"I knew it was real," he chuckled more to himself as his lips curved into a grin. "Not a dream or an illusion I conjured within my mind... Liars, all of them."

"So, this is where you ended up after all." The man remarked, crossing his arms over his chest. Yes, his voice was just as he remembered. "Honestly thought you would be six feet under by now with all you have done, but seeing you trapped in here for the rest of your life, is good enough for me. How long you've been in there?"

"Too long. They do not allow me any of my toys, and I'm restricted to drawing with chalk like a child. It's insulting. However, now that your here, this place might be more... inspirational. How did you find, me?"

"Not that difficult, when the unknown serial killer of Krimson City was finally caught years later, news tends to spread." A beat of silence, he could already see the new creations come together in his mind; inspiration was a beautiful thing.

"Well, now that you have found me, what do you want of me. To mock my failure, rub your victory in my face, destroy what's left of my art or..." he leaned forward in his chair, twisted grin still on his face, "Perhaps, revenge is on your mind." A sudden look of surprise crossed the man's features.

"Revenge? I’m not that angry." He said as he lightly shrugged his shoulders. It was his turn for a puzzled expression as his brows lowered.

"You’re not upset? I highly doubt you have that kind of forgiveness in your heart. Especially after all I have done."

"Yeah, you've done some shitty things that deserve much more punishment than this, but I'm not going to be the one who gives it to you." He narrowed his gaze to a cold stare.

"Why?"

"Why would I?" The pit dropped from his stomach; his stoically cold glare faltered into one of disbelief. It couldn't be. The man was simply playing with him, how crass of him.

"You're trying to rile me up, aren't you, philistine?" He cracked a smile, retaining most of his decorum. "My apologies, but your unruly tactics aren't appreciated. In fact, I—"

"Hold on now, who said I was trying to "rile you up"? If I wanted to piss you off, I would have just told you your "art" is shit." The man uncrossed his arms, running a hand down his face. "Jesus, aren't you a piece of work." He sighed. "Look, let's start this over." He grabbed a metal folding chair on the side of the brought and set it down in front of the cell. Sitting down in the chair, the man, the man gave a smile, it didn't reach his tired eyes.

"Sebastian Castellanos, no one too important. I'm just a guy who wants to talk to you. It's not every day you're given a chance to meet a serial killer claiming his murders to be a work of art." Sebastian leaned back with a smile that had molded into a smirk. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Stefano Valentini."

The air went cold. He could not remember the last time he felt his heart lock up in shock or a rush of dread burst through his veins in a cold chill. Probably when he witnessed his beautiful art being subject to cruel violence, boorish masses ravaging what was left of his lost masterpieces. Or maybe when that final bullet was shot in his face, blowing apart what remained of his own aperture and sending him into darkness. The man who shot that very bullet, sat across from him in blissful ignorance. Whatever semblance of a smile fell from his face, the sickness of indignation twisted his expression into a grim scowl.

"You are a filthy liar." the hiss left his throat with quivering trepidation. "You must be. You spew nothing but lies. You know who I am."

"Of course, I know who you are. I wouldn't come here if I didn't. Though now that I'm face to face with you, you look different than I thought you would." The cruel man's brown eyes examined his tense form, his fingers digging into his arm. "You look like a regular person. If no one knew who you truly are, they would accept you as one of their own. Probably why you were able to get away with murder for so long. But there's something that's been bugging me, every time I look at your case. You were off the record for nearly three years and then suddenly appear out of thin air. Most people who disappear for that long never come back. So, my question to you is, where did you go after you left, Krimson City?" It was a simple question to answer in theory, but it took most of his resolve not to burst out in anger. Fine, he could play this game as well, better even. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly released the grip on his arm and force his scowl into a smile.

"Well, if you really want to know." He chided. "I went to a little town called Union. It's not on any map in the world, so there is no use in trying to seek it, but I was fortunate enough to find it with the help of some very special people. And it was an absolute heaven. It was quite mundane on its surface; however, once you pulled back, it's veneers of simplicity, a whole new world of wonders opened from underneath. A world that could be molded to my whims with a mere thought. I could play God, and my artworks were unearthly glorious to the human eye. I was able to create with no pig-ignorant critics or uncultured heathens to infect my world; I had found a place where I could be at peace with my true self. And nothing could ever get in my way. That was until..."

"Until what?" Sebastian asked, leaning forward in his seat. The light had faded from his smile, leaving a dark smirk in its aftermath.

"Until you killed me." The shock in his eyes was sickening to his core, he knew what happened.

"I did what?! I don't understand anything you're saying." Genuine frustration raging within his voice. He couldn't help but chuckle though it was not from any joy.

"You do not need to understand. Only know that when I was at my peak, you came and tore me down and destroyed my legacy with your vile hands. I only had a moment to look through my camera's lens before you sent a bullet through my head, and then..." his nails began to dig into his thighs as the horrid memories started to resurface like a haunting memory. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think I couldn't create. I experienced what Hell truly is: an abyss of darkness.

"It was you who sent me to that hell, for I couldn't tell you how long before I was brought out into this reality." His lips were pulled into a thin line as anger began to take over once more. "Now I'm stuck here where the sick try to cure the sick with their filthy hands. They try to help with their treatments and medicine, but I do not see the point in their madness. Why try to heal something that is not meant to be cured? It's pure insanity to me. However, they do not care what I think. They do not see an artist; no, they see some diseased creature that needs to be sedated." He took in a deep breath, a sly smile returning as he regained composure. "And frankly, it does not matter to me how the neophytes see me. They're tainted with lies and false pretenses of life that corrupt their world view. I want to know from the perspective of the man who killed. So, I ask you, Mr. Castellanos, what do you see?" He leaned back in his chair, grinning, waiting for a response. He didn't get one right away as the horrid man continued to stare at him with a look of shock and confusion, which shifted into an expression of what looked like doubt. The moments ticked into seconds, the seconds into minutes before his mocking masterpiece decided to break the silence.

"So, that's what goes around that fucked up head of yours." He scoffed. "No wonder you’re here. You’re actually are a goddamn psycho; I don't know whether to fill bad for you or laugh at the fact you can't comprehend reality. It's actually really depressing, though I'm not crying." The chuckle that followed struck a nerve as the man laughed at him. "You got some imagination to think I shot you. That external darkness shit sounds pretty awful, not sure if you were figurative or literal there. If it's anything to you, sorry for killing you, I guess." A small smile had formed on his face by this point. What a cruel man.

"But to answer your question," he stated as he pulled himself together. "What do I see? Just a man who failed to be a good person, in my opinion. A man who let himself succumb to the evil he has within him, leaving him just to be a delusional "artist" covered in scars the world gave him. You can hide that with all the grandeur and false emotions all you want; you'll always be a sick bastard." Sebastian chuckled to himself. "One thing we can agree on, I have no idea why these people would even try to—"

"Scars, you say?" He interrupted, combing a hand through his dark hair. "They are repulsive in nature, aren't they? The stain the supple skin of the body, leaving behind only misery and hatred. Not to mention it ruins the integrity of one's flesh, it becomes much more difficult to mold after it has been tainted by a scar."

"What's your damn point?"

"My point being," he allowed a smile to form,

"You're covered in them. I can see them everywhere, in that hideous face of yours, your blotched arms, the slits of your wrist. I couldn't see them before, but now that I'm closer to you, I see them all." Sebastian folded his arms across his chest, but not how one would try to hide their shame.

"Now you're losing me, what does it matter to you that you can see them? Does it strike some sort of artistic nerve you got?"

"No, but it's terribly impolite to have one's scars shown so openly."

"You're one to talk." Sebastian scoffed.

"Whatever do you mean? I at least have the decency to conceal mine." Underneath his hair, he racked over the mangled mass; he shuddered just thinking of it. It truly was an ugly thing.

"Have you looked in a mirror lately jackass? Those arms of yours look like a goddamn mosaic." He bit back a retort at that and looked down at his arms; they were covered in pale skin that glistened in the artificial light. They were perfectly fine, with only a few scratches from when he had dug his nails into them. He ran his dried fingers over the smooth skin.

"You speak foul nonsense; I normally don't wear short-sleeved blouses, but I don't really have a choice, do I? Though, may I say I do appear rather attractive. " the man gave him a quizzical look, raising an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?"

"Compared to you, certainly."

"Hate to burst your inflated ego there, but you ain’t as pretty as you think you are."

"And you're not as clever as you believe yourself to be." He retorted somewhat irritated; he rubbed the palm of his hand over his arm. Smooth as silk.

"See there, we both have different perspectives of reality. I see something of yourself you can't, and you think I'm someone I'm not. Who's to say whose right?"

"Maybe if I began giving myself scars, your "perspective" would become a reality. Engraving delicate cuts with a rusty blade into my flesh would be a satisfying sight for you, surely." He sneered, grinning, giving himself goosebumps at the mere thought of slicing open flesh with a dagger, leering at the crimson blood seeping from the freshly opened wounds, and the tormenting pain that would course through his veins with every slice across his pale skin.

"If only I put that bullet in your head, you said that "killed" you, then you could have rotted in hell instead of getting to draw another breath of air." Sebastian retorted back, his gaze hardening. "If only I killed you." He could hear the sharp tinge of each word as it left his masterpiece's mouth; it sent a shiver down his spine he had not felt in a very long time. The loud beep of the door interrupted anything else that could have been said between them as an orderly opened the door.

"Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but times up for your visit, Mr. Castellanos." The orderly greeted. "Please allow me to escort you out." He sighed; all good things always ended so soon.

"Well, Mr. Castellanos, I took great pleasure in our discussion today. Hopefully, in the near future, you'll take some time out of your life to come to revisit me. I would love to continue this little game of ours."

"You'd be lucky if they decide to even let me through the front gates, but I'll be back. Be sure of that."

"I'll be waiting." Sebastian gave one last look at the killer behind the glass before standing and walking out the door. As the door closed, he could hear faintly, of the orderly's goodbye to the visitor.

"I hope you enjoyed your visit, Mr. Castellanos. St. Eden Mental Asylum wants to thank you for your cooperation."

Φ

Beautiful. She was absolutely beautiful.

Her form a feminine mystique as she posed to show how her deep blue dress extenuated her curves and the luminous emerald jewel around her neck that matched her vibrant irises. How lovely. His camera was able to capture all of it. All of her essence and beauty put into a single being of grace and purity. Each flash of his camera's lens captured a new angle of her luminosity, every light around degrees perfect for highlighting her magnificent features. He paused to adjust the focus on his camera. She had always been his favorite model for artistic expression, with a little more molding and blood she would become his masterpiece. It gave him goosebumps just thinking of what she would become.

"Stefano, what's on your mind?" He looked up from his camera to meet his model's alluring gaze. She had broken through the setting he created to address him, even though she was still in her set pose. Photographs never spoke with words. It was unflattering, but she could be easily forgiven. Moving his camera away from his eye to see his model through the natural eye.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you always pause during my photoshoot when you think of something. You never stop unless your creative stream is interrupted. I hope it isn't me."

"Oh, no, it's not you, _cara_." Given a chance, he took a step back and re-examined the scene. Everything was in place as he had set it, the lighting was perfect, the out of his model flattered the setting, respectively, the model herself a picture of perfection. Though he did notice one slight imperfection that could smoothly go unnoticed by an uncultured eye.

"It’s the Roses that are the issue." Stepping into the small world he created, he began to rearrange the bouquet of crimson roses that lay delinquently in the ivory vase next to his model. His maroon glove protecting him from the deadly thorns. With a final artistic choice, he finalized his vision, but froze stock still when he felt the light graze of soft fingers comb through his dark hair. It would have been an issue if not for the fingers tracing over the mass of scar tissue that used to be an eye. A beautiful one at that.

"My apologies, your hair was out of place. I'm surprised you didn't notice." He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to curse at his model. She should know better. He turned to her, a fretted expression on her pretty face. "Stefano, personally I..." she bit her glossy lips as she planned her next words. She should choose them very carefully. "I believe that you shouldn't hide it, it's a part of you. There's no need to be afraid to show it."

"I'm not afraid of what the neophytes have to say of my face, for it is not my art."

"It doesn't make you look ugly, if that's what you think."

"Oh, no, I've learned to accept my body a long time ago. There's nothing I can do to change it, so why fight it. It's a pointless struggle, honestly."

"Then why conceal it?"

"Because it's quite impolite to have one's scars showing. A scar taints the image of one’s being, the body is meant to be viewed as a beautiful specimen to be admired and that torture anyone’s gaze with the sight of corrupted flesh. If you aren’t pleasant enough for the world’s eye, you’ve already failed at being an acceptable human.” Puzzled was how his model looked at him, eyes narrowing with pursed lips.

"Wherever did you learn that?" He couldn't help but smile at the thought as a woman glinted within the corners of his mind.

"It doesn't matter. What does, however..." he took a step closer to her; she did not so much as flinch from at his sudden movements, only continuing to stare intently into his gaze. "Why do you care? Does it bother you; I cover it for a reason?"

"No, not at all. I just wonder why one who knows so much of beauty chooses to hide their own." For a moment, he couldn't reply, how would he at such a preposterous statement.

"I beg your pardon?" his model gave a sorrowful sigh past her lips.

"Stefano…" slowly and tentatively like a firefly to a flame, she raised a gentle hand to his face and brushed back his curtain of ebony hair, revealing the marred skin beneath. She did not show the slight look of repulsion at the sight, she had before when he had once slipped, and she caught a glance at the gift war had given him. Though as time passed, he noticed how the look of disgust faded away replaced with what he could only define as pity. With the softness of a mother's touch, her angelic fingers grazed the rough flesh of scars. Her touch was warm as it had always been and held a sense of comfort, he rarely ever had the chance to feel.

"You've been hurt, I can see it in your eyes. Not only by the horrors of war, but…" caressing his cheek, she strengthened her powerful gaze, "By those who choose to be so cruel to others that they corrupt the truth of beauty. You view yourself through such a dirtied lens, it's awful how you see yourself at times. It's wrong, and whatever filled your head with those lies is wrong as well. You don't have to listen to a word that I say, but please know that I care. About you, your art, your happiness." Her eyes brightened as a stunning smile formed on her face. "You've brought me so far and gave me so much that if I gave nothing in return, it would be selfish of me. If there is anything that I can do for you, simply ask me, and I will give all I can to help you. I care for you."

His model was many things. Beautiful, intelligent, a performer, a liar. Yes, the skill of putting in a mask for the enjoyment of others was quite a gift. He had seen her play many characters, all different in their own way. Her acting outshined her natural beauty in many ways, she immersed herself with the new personality and made it her identity. At times he could barely tell if she was wearing a mask or showing her true colors. But now, looking deep into her emerald eyes, he could see the raw emotion within her was truth. There was a peculiar glint in her eyes that could not be created by the trick of the light. It was the spark of her soul.

"Emily... you're too kind to me. It's unexpected, but your kindness is welcomed. You truly do have a way with words. I know you care, and I want you to know I treasure you as well." his gloved hand came up to hold her own; he could feel her warmth through his glove. “You truly are beautiful inside and out.” A rosy blush painted her cheeks, and she gleamed. He rarely allowed anyone to touch him for so long, he should have battered her hand away a long time. She was an exception. He let her touch him, run gentle hands through his hair, he even let her soft lips tenderly caress his scarred cheek. He let her because her soft touch would soon be a lovely memory. Walking back off the set, he could see the gleam of his dagger hiding in the darkness, untouched and thirsting to create. He readjusts the lens of his camera as his model, soon to be masterpiece, took her pose in all her raw beauty. He grinned behind the lens of his camera.

"Smile for the camera." The camera flashed as he took her final picture as a soulful body.

That had been years ago.

He still remembered every piece of her and the masterpiece he created with her essence. So, well he did, he was able to recreate the scene with such ease. A thought, a wave of his hand, and the room was set correctly. The elegant blue dress, the vibrant green emerald, and the bouquet of crimson roses all came together in a simple puzzle if one were to take time to appreciate the photograph on the wall. Her face was made to be unrecognizable; it still captured her beauty in art. Though there was one detail he felt off about the scene, it only stood out to him during his final overlook of the setting. An element that was not supposed to be but laid elegantly next to the charming roses. A simple photograph, a photograph where ocean green eyes stared back at him unblinking. He froze for a moment at the sight of it, before grabbing it from its place on the dresser.

It did not take him long to rip it apart to measly shreds and discard its remains. He would need to regain his bearings; the CORE herself granted him so much power that he was beginning to create more than what was required. It wasn't too troublesome; he would learn sooner rather than later on how to control the power granted to him. After all, it would not be long before his guest arrived. A man who would play a part in his performance. He had set the stage now; it was time for the show to begin. He looked back up at the picture of his model. Hopefully, the man would play his part as a damaged man, finally coming to peace with a dagger to the heart and a camera capturing the final flash of live across his eyes. Though, he knew, the man was only a candle's flame compared to the brilliant blaze of his model. She had never broken character, and by God, she had played her part beautifully until the end. Emily indeed was the best actress and his most inspiring masterpiece.

Φ

The array of colorful pills laid before him on the table. He had not organized them yet; he would have if it were not for the slight tick that caught his eye. The red pills were a different shade than usual, still being bright in hue, but there was a dark undertone to his shine that it appeared more of a maroon than vermillion. It was off-putting for many reasons. It was an ugly hue, to begin with, and it contrasted greatly with the other colors, but the most troubling being... Maybe it had always been that color. He compared the hues in his head, and sure enough, they were different shades of the same color. There was no doubt in his mind there was a difference, it worried him when it shouldn't have had. He knew his truths and fallacies and held firm to his beliefs. But what if his revelations were disconnected with reality? No, that had to be impossible. He was never taught any wrongs; therefore, he could know no wrong. They were the ones that corrupted his truths. They were sick things spreading their disease to anything they could grasp with their disgusting claws. They would not fool him, though. He would make certain of it.

"Why aren't you taking your medicine, Mr. Valentini?" The voice concerned yet nervous in its tone pulled his gaze from his medicine to the orderly. He couldn't force his lips into a smile.

"Mr. Carpenter, may I ask you a question?" He said, his voice hollow with a distant gaze.

"Of course, what is it?" He was silent for a moment, unsure of his actions. Regaurdless, he presented his arms to the orderly, pale and unmarked.

"What’s wrong with them?" He asked, staring intently for the slightest reaction of the orderly. It was not like reading an open book, but instead watching pictures in a slide show as the story itself unfolded. A moment of confusion started the reaction, followed by a hint of doubt, before a smile of reassurance took over the expression. The eyes told a different story, they always did.

"Nothing, at all. We may need to trim those nails later in the week, but besides that, everything looks perfectly fine with you." Nearly a believable performance, he wanted to believe in it, but he could not help but hold onto doubt. He had to in a place like this, a sick twisted place like this.

"Thank you for your observation. I question my own thoughts at times." Forcing a grin, he turned back to his medication and began to rearrange them. He wondered if death would be a better existence than being locked up in this hellscape, he would eventually lose himself. In the end, he decided death could never be the lesser of the two evils. Nothing could be created after his death. Death could only be captured in his art as a memory to be reminisced, never to be lived again. No, he wouldn’t die as a fading memory to be mocked whenever remembered. He would never end; his art would never end. If he must give part of his sanity so he may continue to live on, then so be it. For what could be worse than death?


	2. The Art of Melancholia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Evil Within. This story will contain, blood, gore, violence, and dark themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

"He's not who he says he is. You’re all falling for his lies."

"How, is he not Sebastian Castellanos?"

"Yes, that is his name, but he knows more than he's telling you."

"And what exactly is he not telling us?"

"That he was there. He was there with me in Union, I could never forget him after what he did to me."

"What happened between you two? You seem to hold some hostility towards him."

"Why, of course, I have anger for the man who murdered me."

"... Mr. Castellanos murdered you?"

"Did I stutter?"

"I just wonder what you mean by 'murder.' Were you hurt by him?"

"He shot me in the head with his gun."

"... But here you are still breathing."

"You cannot comprehend the truth of reality. Mock me as you please but listen when I say he acts dumber that he truly is, he's playing with me, like a puppeteer with their marionette. But I see right through him I see all his dastardly lies; you can't see it. He would kill you too if he so desired. He's animalistic like that, the Neanderthal. He ruined me, stripped me of everything I hold dear, and left me to rot in hell."

"Mr. Valentini, please calm yourself… Maybe this was the wrong decision."

"No, doctor, you did nothing wrong. I'm glad you allowed him to visit. It's a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"That it wasn't a dream. It was as real as the flesh on my bones. We coexisted on that same plane of reality and experienced each other with chilling intimacy. He knows me but chooses to ignore the truth and make me to be a fool. It's sickening."

"Are you certain you're not mixing up your people?"

"Pardon me?"

"Just hear me out. Maybe during your time out of Krimson City, you met someone with similar characteristics to Mr. Castellanos, who harmed you. It's a possibility of mistaken identity, Mr. Castellanos claims he never interacted with you face to face before yesterday. You did show signs of head trauma when you were brought to us, and no one knows what truly happened during those years—"

"I know what happened! And so, does he, the bastard!"

"Keep to your side of the table, or you'll have to be restrained if you continue this behavior… If I had known this is how you would react, I would not have allowed him to visit you. Do you genuinely believe Mr. Castellanos knows you?"

"Yes, I do. He must… I want to apologize for my behavior. It was ungentlemanly of me to act like an uneducated brute. I know better."

"That's quite alright. You look unwell. Do you feel alright?"

"I feel fine doctor, simply had an unpleasant night is all."

"What happened?"

"A dream happened."

"Was the dream about, Mr. Castellanos?'

"No… It was too much of an overwhelming collage of pictures and faces spinning around me. I was unable to grasp any understanding of what was happening. I can't recall any exact detail as I normally would. I only know when I woke up, I couldn't let myself fall back to sleep."

"… I see. Well, I can see why you appear so tired, I think that's enough for us today."

"I haven't finished my art yet; this is a piece I must complete."

"Don't worry, I'll keep it safe for you to finish the next session."

"Fine, but before we dismiss… will I be able to see him again?"

"Why would you ever want to see the man who murdered you?"

"Because I need to. I must see him again if I am to find any semblance of peace. He took a part of me, and I wish to make myself whole again. I won't let him win, not this time."

"… Alright, I may entertain the idea, but for now, I'll send you on your way and make sure you're taken care of. And please talk to me if anything troubles you. I'm here to help you, Mr. Valentini."

"I understand, doctor."

"Oh, and Mr. Valentini,"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget to take your medicine."

"I'll take them, doctor, I promise."

Φ

He could always think clearly while taking a shower.

Being in such a restricting place, he was not granted many luxuries; therefore, he took advantage of every privilege he was given. Spending all the time he could in the shower, until the orderlies came. He was also fortunate enough to be assigned to the isolated showers. He couldn't imagine bathing in the same room with the sick animals of this wretched place. It allowed him to shower in peace, letting the hot water run over him to cleanse himself of filth and sin. The only sound being the rush of water pattering against his skin and the buzz of his thoughts, which cluttered his mind. Ideas ranging from what he planned to create the next day to how the lack of a mirror in his cell was a pain. Each kept him occupied when the scolding water began to cool as he ran the bar of generic soap across his sculpted body and rubbed in shampoo through his dark, grown out hair. In all honesty, he never truly minded the cooler temperature of the water, it was pleasantly relaxing, but by that time, his thoughts became repetitive and began to sink into insanity; he found other means to entertain himself.

He would begin to sing. Though he wouldn't call it singing, more of a hum that vibrated through the back of his throat to resonate through the room. He was not a singer. He had known those born with the gift of heavenly vocal cords, seen a few through slit throats, and who could make angels weep at a simple melody. Though he was not harsh on the ears, he could not bring anyone to tears with his voice, his words most certainly, but never with a musical note. The tune was solemn in its melody, one that he could not name, but rested within the depths of his mind as a faded memory. Not remembering where he first heard it, but it had been impactful enough on him for him to still be able to hum the song without knowing the meaning. Memories were precious entities of the mind, creating the person belonging, and giving a soul to an empty husk. This is the reason why he had become so hateful to those who put him in Union.

Wanting to take away what made a person's core was utterly vile, the bastards tried so hard to mold him to what they saw fit, but he saw through their façade before they were able to start pulling strings any longer. He wouldn't let the bastards here get to him either. He was sick of being everyone's puppet to manipulate and control at a whim. Now it is the demented 'doctors'. Before it was the so-called professional 'critics' of his art. In Union that unholy Father who used the words of God, to strike fear into those who were deviant. The deceitful bastard had only blasphemy spilling from his lips, and he had fallen into the devil's claws. The cur was most likely burning in the fires of hell for his sins. However, if he were given the chance for vengeance, the unrecognizable monster of flesh and bone that would be created from the mangled corpse of the wretch would be a horror of– No. No, he needed to calm himself, getting worked up about the past would not lead to any bright future. He found himself losing his composure more often than not, he had never been confined to such a place where he was unable to freely create. He needed to pull himself back together. Let his worries wash away along with the soap-filled water down the drain and only focus on his song. His beautiful song…

That was interrupted by an unnerving noise that caused him to freeze in place with a racing heart. A chuckle as cruel as mischief sounded from underneath the roar of the showerhead and hum of his voice. In a heartbeat, he turned to the shower curtain, it was a sheer white, and if one were to stand on the other side of it, their silhouette would be as clear as a glass statuette. Not even the smallest shadow showed through the drenched curtain.

"Is anyone there?" he called out tentatively, a sense of uneasiness whelming within him. Not to his surprise, he received no reply. Why would he? The bathrooms were designed so that the bathroom door opened to a secured room where he would change with a window on the door so he could be observed while putting on his clothes. While the entrance to the bathroom door had no locks, the first door to get into the solitary room was locked heavily and made all horrid creaks and groans that he could hear from the bathroom when opened. He had heard none of that, and unquestionably if the orderlies had come, they would have addressed him by now. It was not uncommon for him to overhear words that were never spoken, some faint whispers others a startling howl. He may have once or twice jumped at the sudden illusion; it made worse by the fact he was mocked when others noticed. He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, they were probably laughing at him right now protected behind a monitor screen. He would not give them that satisfaction and continued his shower. It took him a moment to find his voice again, but he was not as vigorous as before.

He could not help but have an itch at the back of his skull and a feeling of insects twisting inside of his stomach. The feeling of being watched was unmistakable. Maybe it was the camera used against him that gave his spine chills, but he knew better than to not trust his gut. While unnerving, the cameras never gave him the primal sense of dread that put him on the alert. It could not be ignored, and he looked all around him to find any source that could have caused such an intense feeling. Nothing but white tiles surrounding him like a bird trapped in the cage, with a hungry predator lurking on the edge of hearing. Suddenly being alone in the shower was not pleasant anymore; the cold water feeling like pins and needles, and the lack of any clothing made him feel vulnerable as a newborn baby. He decided to end his shower early, it did not matter if the possible threat were just a figment of his imagination, he could not spend another moment alone. Turning off the water, leaving him cold and shaking, he reached out to the shower curtain to grab his towel.

To his horror, his hand only gripped the cold metal bar to where the towel should have been. A snicker came from behind the curtain, clear as day. A striking sense of fear raced through him in a chilled pain he had never felt in a long time. It was either that or the rush of overwhelming madness that caused him to grip the shower curtains and throw them open, nearly tearing them off the rack. He was ready to lunge at anyone that was on the other side, there would be no mercy on his end; they already damned themselves by daring to step foot in the bathroom. He was met with an empty bathroom, stuffy from all the steam his long shower created; it was suffocating. He only needed to look down to see his towel had only fallen from the bar in a clump on the ground. He did not know whether to feel relieved or stupid. He could not go on like this, he would lose himself to the corruption planted in his mind. Shamefully, he grabbed the towel from the floor and patted himself down before wrapping it around his waist and walking over to the mirror fogged by hot steam.

A long sigh left him as he wiped a palm across the damp glass, a picture of himself stared back at him. Ebony hair, glossy with drops of water dancing from its edges, a face showing two different stories of war and beauty, a single eye as detailed as crystallites and as blue as a winter icicle. He noticed the flaw instantly; it stuck out like a rotting thumb. No, it was not his unflattering expression that dramatized his features, nor the messy arrangement of his hair that showed his horrid scars. It was the pair of filthy green irises that peered through the mist and bored into his soul.

"Why did you stop?" The voice sneered in an inane perverse tone. He spun around instantly, his back against the rim of the sink. A pair of forest green eyes rimmed with dark bags and matted blonde hair hung off morbidly pale skin, peeked from around the corner of the open bathroom door. "Did I disturb you? I'm sorry, you can continue if you want." The feeling of horror that course through his chest was earthly as it stung with every racing heartbeat.

"How did you get in here?! Get the hell out!" He screamed, barring his teeth and reflexively trying to cover himself with his arm. He felt violated and full of ire. How long had he been there, unnoticed just watching him— he perished the thought.

"I liked your song, it was pretty..." The leering eyes raked over his body with the hungry graze he had seen in predators. "Not as pretty as your skin, though." The room suddenly became colder as he could not help but shiver.

"What part of get out do you, not understand, you goddamn mongrel?!"

"Shh, don't cry, you'll ruin that sweet voice of yours…You don't mind if I take a closer look, do you?" He glanced back at the sink to see if anything could help him, nothing but facets and porcelain. Fists would be his only means of protection, until either the bastard ran away, or the orderlies came. Neither seemed likely, he looked back up at the camera. It stared back at him, unblinking.

"Damn you." His attention was brought back to the door when it began to creak open, and the man stepped into the bathroom. The pit of his stomach dropped at the sight. The brute's locks of hair brushed the archway of the doorframe, and the torn stained outfit of the unhinged animal clung tightly to a ravaged body. Though that was not what caught his breath in his throat. A large gash was tearing his mouth apart into an ear-splitting grin, exposing raw gums and decaying yellow teeth as a grey tongue ran over bleeding lips. The monster closed the door.

"Stay just like that. I'll come to you."

It began to walk towards him in slow, agonizing steps, dirty bare feet slapping against the tile. A fight or flight response was natural to occur in intense situations such as these, but he found himself frozen in place like a fly in amber. "Such pretty legs you have. I haven't seen someone like you in a very long time, Stefano. You smell so sweet."

"You know my name?" He sputtered, stunned. It's smile only widened.

"I know so much. Your name, your age, your family, your scars, your fears. I don't know how you taste though, if your good, I'll let you get a taste of me too."

"Leave me, they'll kill you if they find you in here."

"But you won't kill me. Isn't that silly coming from a serial killer? Or is it that you only kill little girls? I can be your little girly if you want." He gritted his teeth in anger, no one could ever understand his work, could they?

"You stupid animal, do you want to die?" He sneered. "I told you, to fucking leave!" It happened too quickly for him to register. One moment he is standing facing against the intruder, the next, his head was pushed into the cracked mirror with the edge of sink digging into his back. That pain was tolerable compared to the large hand covering his mouth, disrupting his rapid breathing and the long nails cutting into his side. In the reflection of the broken mirror, he could see the green eyes staring back at him, a hot breath tingled across his scarred skin as the monster hissed into his ear.

"I told you, no crying. I just want to hold you, and touch you, and taste you, and make sure that you feel every little bit of it. Isn't that lovely?" He recoiled disgusted when he felt the tongue give bloody licks on his sensitive scars. The horrid stench of the monster's breath would have caused him to retch alone if he had eaten, but it would not have been able to leave him as the hand over his mouth prevented anything from coming out. Cries for help or screams of defiance, were not possible, he could only try thrash, kicking, and clawing at the disgusting thing, but this only elicited inciting groans from the monster's throat.

"Oh, I see you want to play too. You’ll see I'm going to make you bleed all over. But don't worry, I'll make sure this pretty face is untouched. I like it the way it is, just so much cruelty shown out for display, it feels so good." The claws on his side began to tug on the towel around his waist. "I want to see all your scars."

A sickening crunch echoed through the room, and the horrific scream of agony that pierced his ears was startling but not unexpected as the monster recoiled from him. It was a perfect mix of shock and anguish coupled with an expression of utter repulsion. It was a beautiful reaction for someone who had just had their finger bitten off. The copper taste of blood stained his tongue and dripped over his mouth in dark rivulets; he spat the disgusting thing on the floor in a mass of broken nail and ripped flesh. If the mongrel wanted its finger, it should have kept them out of his mouth.

" _Cazzo Bastardo_!" The knee to the gut came next; by the way, his knee became sore after the blow; he had struck either pure muscle or thick fat. In the end, it did not matter as the desired reaction occurred, wide eyes, stunted breath, and stumbling backward with little balance. He took his opportunity to run straight past the groaning mongrel and burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

"Do you know what you just did, you little fuck?!!" The scream of rage from behind him had him forget his clothes and begin to bang on the metal door frantically.

"Get me out, there's a goddamn psychopath in here! Open the door!" No reply came from the other side of the door; in fact, he could not see anyone, only white tile floors. A loud bang came from the door behind him as it shook on its hinges. He slammed harder on the door, ignoring the pain of his bare skin scratching against metal.

"I know you're there, please; you have to get me out!" A loud groaning creak scratched against his ears, and to his shock, the large metal door began to creak open with no one on the other side. The crack of the door breaking behind him was enough incentive for him to ignore all rules and throw the metal door open, it slammed into the wall with a crash as he rushed down the hallway. It had been a while since he had ever run so fast, but adrenaline and fear had him sprinting while his heart raced, and lungs burned. He knew the layout of the washrooms to near perfection, and the exit was not too far, just a door found at the end of the many bathroom doors and stalls.

It was not long before it was in sight, and though he knew it was locked, he had no plans to slow down. Not even thinking of the pain, he slammed his body into the door just as the keycard lock flashed green. He flew through the door like a bat out of hell. There was barely any time to register what had occurred before he collided into the hallway wall and collapsed to his hands and knees onto the floor. Heaving and hunched over, he struggled to catch his breath, and his vision was overwhelmed with blurring whites. Though as he looked up one dark shape stuck out. Through the thrumming of his chest and ringing in his ears, he made out the barrel of a gun. Looking closer, he could see the guards standing over him with anger, yet frightened expressions and the orderlies terrified behind them.

"What the fuck are you doing, Valentini?! How the hell did you get out?!" Already the guard was yelling at him. He shifted to sit up. "Don't fucking move!" A sharp jab to the legs had him back onto the cold floor.

"Jackson, calm down! He's just scared, can't you see?"

"I don't give a shit! Fuckin' psycho nearly slammed the door into my face."

"Just don't shoot please, let him explain." The orderly took a step forward towards the guard and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. The guard's aim quivered.

"Fine, but he makes one wrong move, I can't promise what I'll do next."

"At least let him sit up." The guard grumbled under his breath in frustration.

"Valentini, stay back against the wall and no sudden movements." He could not move quickly if he wanted to. The pain was finally starting to register, and his body ached with the slightest movement as he sat up and leaned against the wall. "Now, why the hell are you out here?" Though exhausted, he still found it within himself to feel anger. With his breath regained, he was finally able to find his voice.

"I’m out here because you let one of those goddamn animals get into the bathroom with me!" he hissed. "One of you fools left the door unlocked, and that bastard was able to get in. It attacked me and got its disgusting filth all over me, and you weren't outside the door. Why weren’t you—"

"Wait, are you saying that another patient got in with you?" The orderly asked with a look of disbelief.

"Yes, did you not hear me before?!"

"That's impossible I made sure that door was locked…" the other orderly stated confidently before his confidence promptly crumbled. "Or at least I thought I did."

"Isaac, just shut up and check the bathrooms." The guard ordered, never taking his eyes off of him. "Ward alert security and retrieve reinforcements." He was met with two replies. A 'yes sir' from the other guard who holstered his gun and raced down the hall and a groan from the orderly who swiped his keycard through the lock and shuffled into the washrooms. He was left with a guard with a gun trained on him and an orderly who was anything but useful. He could only sit in a heap on the floor with pain raking through his body. Yes, the pain was starting to set in, and he was sure bruises would form later from how much strain he had put on his body, it was a small price to pay for survival.

"Hey, Mr. Valentini, can you tell me what hurts?" the question almost went unheard as he glanced up at the orderly walking towards him.

"Stay back, David." The guard demanded gripping the orderly by the arm and tugging him away. The orderly pulled back.

"Stop it, Jack. He's only in a towel cut him some slack."

"I've seen a man rip someone's throat out only wearing a gold chain around his neck. It doesn't mean anything, he'll still hurt you. Just like last time when you decided to get your dumbass too close. It doesn't matter how "scared" or "hurt" he seems to be. He's still a fucking psychopath." That seemed to strike a chord within the orderly, and he ripped his arm out of the guard's grip.

"Last time I checked this is a hospital, not a damn prison, and he is not an inmate; he is a patient. And yes, he is sick in the head, but it is our job to help him with his sickness. Because I'm not a judge, and you're not an executioner. You are a protector. You need to remember that, Eli." The guard did not say anything more and only continued to glare daggers at him as the orderly crouched down in front of him, not too close but enough that he could he see the glares in the orderly’s hazel eyes. "Are you hurt?"

"… No. Not too badly. I could not let it leave a permanent scar. I'd be ruined." The look of concern deepened on the orderly's face. Being so closely observed, he had the itch to readjust his ruffled fringe, how long had it gone unnoticed?

"Are you sure? You might need to go down to the treatment center with a cut like that."

"Treatment? I don't need to go to treatment. It's repulsive down there, I'd rather bleed out than step foot in that hellhole."

"I know you hate it there, but it would be for the best, trust them."

"I don't trust any of the fools down there, they do the work of the devil." The orderly's look faded.

"Okay, we won't make you go, if you really don't want to." The door suddenly opened and in walked the orderly, looking unnerved and a little pale.

"Well, there are definitely signs of a struggle. Mirrors all cracked, and the doors pretty messed up. There's blood over the floor too, I made sure not to touch it. Not that I would, who the hell knows where it's been?"

"I don't need to know what you did or didn't do," the guard snapped. "Did you recognize who was in there?"

"No, not really."

"Did you at least get a description, idiot?"

"Hey ease up, I didn't get a description because there can be no description. No one's in there, the place is empty." His and the other orderly's attention was brought onto the man, one a look of confusion the other an expression of fury.

"What?" The guard turning away for once to look at the orderly.

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what I saw. You're welcome to look for yourself if you want."

"You're a filthy liar." He hissed, never letting up his gaze. The orderly paled further.

"Don't get upset, please." The orderly in front of him said before looking back at the other. "Isaac, are you sure you didn't see anyone. Maybe they were hiding. He’s not all bloodied up for no reason."

"Listen, unless he was fighting ghosts in there, no one else was in there with him. Probably just didn't like what he saw in the mirror." The orderly let out a long sigh and slowly turned back to him, light eyes holding a look of guilt.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Valentini, but you're going to be sent down to treatment as soon as possible."

Φ

To say he hated the treatment center would be an understatement of grand proportions. He loathed the center and everyone who was a part of it. It reeked of chemicals and biomatter, always leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Not to mention, he had to be strapped down during examination as not cause any harm to himself or others. They were not wrong to do so; he had fantasized many times how the physician would react if he stabbed him in the throat with one of his own scalpels. He could handle being restrained only when out of his cell, which did not happen for too long. However, imagine his shock when his latest trip to the center left him in a restraint jacket that he was required to wear even when in his cell. His cell was the only place he could roam freely, now he was forced to wear the suffocating thing in his area of sanctuary.

He did not understand how it was supposed to help him, the doctor and physician both disagreed with him, stating that he would not be able to harm himself and be safer. They even tried to console him, saying he would not wear it forever, just until he got "better." He could not see himself getting any "better" in this, it has only been a couple of days, and he already wants to rip the thing apart. It was no help. Being unable to use his hands, he could only create pictures in his head, as the floated around his mind’s space the unrelenting itch to create caused goosebumps to form on his skin. He could just barely move his arms, and he scratched his filed down nails on the inside of the rough fabric. Alone it surely would have driven him mad with time, but with this hindrance, upon his person, the doctor was willing to allow him, visitors.

Sebastian Castellanos was coming to visit once more. While he was not directly told, he heard whispers between the staff of preparing for another visit by the strange man. He could not believe his ears at first, especially after his small outburst during a previous session and the bathroom incident. Though it did not matter to him what went through the ignorant' minds, he was internally satisfied for being allowed to meet his masterpiece in the flesh once more. He had been waiting for so long already. He sat cross-legged on his bed, facing the door and watching with unyielding anticipation for it to open. He was itching to continue their little game they had begun; he had been thinking over their last conversation and concluded that the other man was a cruel liar. He had to be. The man knew of Union, knew who he was, and knew it was no delusion. The man had to be a liar. Though there was always the echo of doubt with every thought he had. What if Castellanos was telling the truth, and not had the slightest notion of what he was telling him? Well, then he would be insane, wouldn't he?

He perked up when the lock beeped, and the door began to open. Smiling, he watched with growing excitement as the man entered the room, looking just as he remembered him, though the man’s clothes were leaning towards more casual than previously. He found the dark blue overcoat quite fetching on his form.

"Please remember that you can press the alarm button on the panel if you are experiencing any trouble." The orderly in the doorway advised.

"Believe me, I won't be needing it any time soon. I can handle the great artist here just fine." The smirk given to him made a shiver crawl through his spine.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Castellanos. Please enjoy your visit." With that, the door slammed closed, leaving him alone with his masterpiece.

"Told you, you would see me again." Already he could see mischief brewing within the rich depths of the man's eyes as he pulled up a chair and sat in front of him. He gave one look over of him before stating:

"You look even more insane than when I last saw you. What's with the restraint jacket?" He readjusted himself to adequately address his visitor.

"I have you know this is only a temporary hindrance, so don't get used to it. I'm only wearing this because I'm made to, the doctors believe it will help with my "harmful tendencies." Whatever they mean by that?"

"What exactly did you do? Didn't stab anybody, did you?"

"No, I skinned a man alive before butchering him into pieces and consuming his flesh." He chuckled.

"...Can't tell if you're being serious or not?"

"I'm no comedian, but I do enjoy humor from time to time. But, no, no one was harmed by my hands."

"So, what the hell did you do?"

"Well..." he took in a deep breath as he chose his words wisely, "I'm told that there was an incident in the washroom where I broke the lock on the door and shattered the mirror in a fit of violent rage. There was no serious bodily harm during the accident, only a couple of bruises and a few cuts from when I crashed into the glass. Because of said incident, I am ordered to wear this restraint to keep myself from any further bodily harm. Apparently, the doctors diagnosed it as a bout of 'psychosis' inducing vivid hallucinations and uncontrollable actions."

"Hallucinations? What did your sick mind conjure up to scare you so much?"

"I wasn't frightened by anything I saw. Unsettled would be more accurate." He snapped back. "Wouldn't you be if some mongrel snuck up on you while you were showering? It even had the nerve to lay its filthy hands on me. I could feel it touch me with his rotting hands, I could hear its raspy voice of evil glee, I could smell its odor of gore, I could even taste its blood on my tongue, I can never forget those horrid green eyes but they keep telling me otherwise. They speak to me as if I am a child and treat me like one as well. It is deplorable how much they question me, to the point that every word I say is a lie.

"'It was merely a vivid construct made by your psyche, and with how you reacted, you just so happened to slam yourself into the mirror and accidentally bite into your own tongue. That is what happens when you are under severe stress. Have you been taking your medicine, Mr. Valentini? It will cure your sickness, and you'll feel much better.' Yes, I have been doctor. But you all are so buried in your own lies you all can hardly see the truth when it's right in your damn faces." His throat was sore by the end of his rant, and he took deep breathes to calm himself; he had wanted to get that off his chest the moment he was sent to the treatment center. He would have felt much ‘better’ if the reaction from his guest was not riddled with a look of skepticism.

"You’re upset that they question everything you say? Yeah, because everybody should be willing to trust a psychopathic killer right." He scowled in discontent. "Don't get mad at me; you're only pissed because you know I'm right. Though I think you should listen to your doctor, it may do you better than you think. I know when I've been a bit... on edge before, it was hard for me to believe that I was the one having delusions. Granted, most of my outbursts happened due to alcohol poisoning, but thankfully, I had people that cared enough about me to pull me out of that mess." The man sighed, having a lustful gaze, most likely reminiscing of old memories; he hoped those memories included him. "Listen, I'm not here to start a fight with you. If you say you were attacked by a deranged creep, I believe you if no one else will."

"Why don't I believe you?" He asked, his scowl fading.

"Don't know. I have no idea what goes through your screwed conscious. Just know that I'll listen to whatever you have to say."

"You speak like my doctor. Though where he has failed to aid me, I think you could actually be of help to me."

"Oh, really, how?" He let a smirk crawl onto is lips, let the games begin.

"We're talking about myself too much for my liking, I believe we should converse more of you, Mr. Castellanos. After all, you are a very fascinating individual and the only person to ever be allowed to visit me. I want to make this last as long as it can and getting to know more about you personally will accomplish that. So, allow me to ask you, 'what do you when you're not here'?" The man leaned back in his chair, looking much more relaxed than before.

"Nothing much, I usually spend most days working from home; I've been out more since trying to visit you, and now that I have, I find myself here more often. Even though this place gives me the chills."

"Please, Mr. Castellanos, you must have more fascinating life of your own outside this wretched place. God knows I don't. No friends or family waiting for you back home?"

"Nope, just a lone man living through life with nothing but his wits and a gun."

"Oh really, that ring on your finger tells a rather different story?" smiling, he glared at the gleaming silver ring around the man's finger, who promptly crossed his arms. The man looked off to the side with a scoff.

"It's complicated."

"Complicated as in you and her are apart, but not divorced or complicated as in you are divorced but refuse to let go?"

"Complicated as in its none of your damn business." The man snapped, turning back to him.

"Don't be mad at me, you're only pissed because you know I'm right." He snickered, enjoying the light flush of angry red that spread across the man's tanned complexion. It was a vastly different hue than the dried crimson streaks that had previously speckled his face. "I only tease you, no need to get so worked up. But if you wish to not talk about your family, at least tell me your line of work." The man calmed himself with deep breaths, uncrossing his arms before continuing the conversation.

"My work I can’t really say what I do, but it’s really nothing special; it can be rather boring, honestly. Unless you count filling reports and organizing paperwork exciting, which is what I do most often. The most interesting paper I've seen was one detailing with the escape of an inmate at the old Krimson City Penitentiary; he had lost it and beat his entire family to death with his bare hands. Still haven't caught the bastard. Besides that, coming to talk to you is the most thrilling experience for me in a long while. Though, to be honest, I would rather talk to you in a prison cell than a psyche ward like this, I’ve never liked hospitals. I couldn't imagine being locked up in here for the rest of my life. What is it like living in a sick place like this?"

"Akin to living in an eternal prison with its only goal being to physically and mentally restrain its victims under the guise of curing them." He replied without skipping a beat. "Most of the Neanderthals here don't make it any better, especially those lumbering brutes who find it dignified to shove their weapons in my face; power is a force that corrupts the mind with ease. Though I would not call this place hell. Trust me, I've been there. There are some aspects here that are not truly terrible. Most days, I have 'therapy sessions' with my doctor; during such time, I'm allowed to create beautiful art."

"They let you play with bloody entrails?"

"Unfortunately, no. I must work with the tools given to me, paper, and charcoal. Drawing is not my preferred method of creating, but an artist must do what they have to."

"So, you draw now? I thought you just took pictures."

"To properly set up a scene for my photography, I must plan ahead before arranging supplies for a project. Drawing out the vision in my head not only helps me create beautiful scenery, but my drawing skills increased as well. You're welcome to take a look at my work." He nodded his head towards the metal cabinet against the wall with a grin. "The orderlies keep my drawings in the top drawer." His guest got up and made his way towards the cabinet, leaving only a turned back for him to view. He heard the draw being yanked but a lock keeping it in place. "Oh, did I forget to mention, to open it, you'll want to ask for—" a small jingle followed by a sharp click filled the room. "… a key." He heard the metal drawer open along with a chuckle. "I don't believe you're supposed to have those, Mr. Castellanos." He remarked, watching as the man looked over his shoulder with a small smirk.

"Shush, you want me to appreciate your art, don't you?" that made him smile.

"Fair enough continue." The man turns back and presumably opens the file that held his words. Anticipation swelled within him as he watched the man look through his makeshift portfolio of black and white artworks created from the depths of his mind. The excitement of someone viewing his art was as familiar as it was welcomed, he would have been twiddling with his fingers as he waited patiently for a response if his arms were not restrained. Though his patience was slowing wearing out as the silence prolonged.

"What do you think?" he asked impatiently.

"Well, I'm not surprised," Sebastian replied, scrutinizing one of his pieces before going to the next.

"What do you mean by that? You sound as if it is not to your liking."

"I didn't mean it like that. I've seen some of your art before in the newspaper and when I researched you. Though I tried to steer away from your… real-life ‘artworks.’"

"You didn't state whether you like my art or not."

"I'm afraid you won't like what I have say."

"No, please tell me. I want to know what you think, how it makes you feel."

"Disturbed. I mean, I've seen some fucked up shit, but some of your stuff is absolutely disgusting, made me delete some of my history actually." Everyone was a critic, weren't they? "But I have to give you props for how detailed the art is, not everybody can draw this well with only a crayon."

"Charcoal."

"Yeah, well, if you want some actual critics, I'm not the person you should be asking. I'm only liable to grade children's drawings. And if I saw my little girl drawing this, I honestly would be worried."

"Oh, so there’s a daughter. I thought you were a solitary man?" Sebastian visibly stiffed and cursed quietly to himself. Of course, he would have a family. Though he himself was not interested in the thought of having children, he could envision Sebastian having the desire to have a family of his own to cherish and care for. "You shouldn't continue to lie to me. It does you no good, you will become entangled in a web of your own lies. Not only, but our relationship shouldn't be built upon mistrust. If you want this to work, you will have to end the lies. All of them." Sebastian was quiet, setting down the papers and sighing heavily. He kept his back to him.

"Don't push it, Valentini." He grumbled, though it was a tone unrelated to anger or frustration. "I want to keep my personal life, personal for many reasons. You're bored in here, so you want to mess with me fine I understand that. I would probably screw with people, too, if I were stuck in your situation. But I think if you continue playing this game of yours which consumes your whole world, you'll end up only hurting yourself. You’re creating a fantasy world, and I don’t want any part in it."

"Then why are you here?" he hissed. "You say you simply want to talk, but I think there's more behind your intent of being here. Claiming ignorance, will not hide any of your secrets. You may fool them, but you will not fool me. For you are no actor, and your lies fall apart the moment they are faced with the truth. The truth being, you know me, you know who I am, and I know who you are in turn, Sebastian Castellanos. Tell me I'm wrong." It was silent, aside from the buzz of artificial life and light breathing. He could not see Sebastian's face, but he had a clear image of what it could look like.

"I can't." Sebastian finally sighed solemnly. Triumph is what overflowed his veins and the catalyst to the grin that spread across his face, he nearly fell over from the excitement. "You're right, I do know you.” Another deep breath. “I know you were born in Florence, Italy, December 22, 1985. I know you lived with a family who raised you until you old enough to make it on your own, though who died not long after." His thrill began to fade away like the setting sun’s rays as his masterpiece began to put his artwork back into its folder.

"I know that you went to a prestigious art school to prepare yourself to become an artist. I know once you graduated college, you became a war photographer and traveled to many war-ridden countries. I know in your last mission you accompanied, you were struck by a mine that left you disfigured and disturbed. I know that once you returned to Italy, you couldn't bear the sight of it any longer and came here to America. I know that when you opened up your first art gallery in Krimson City, that it was attended by many who critiqued your work as if it was a monstrosity." He locked the folder back into its cabinet before turning around to face him.

Eyes filled with such a warmth that the flame within them threatened to melt his own icy gaze. His masterpiece began to walk closer to him, slow and captivating. "I know that's when you began your killing spree, to fulfill your artistic need. I know that the last woman you murdered before you disappeared was an actress named Emily Lewis. I know that when you returned to this city after two years, you were scared and didn't know where you were or what to do. I know you were found guilty under reasons of insanity and brought here for treatment. I know right now; you still have a piece of shrapnel lodged in your skull that brings you pain as well as nightmares." Sebastian sat down before him, a gaze burning so profoundly he could never look away. He could see a soul spark within the rich depths.

"And I know you only wanted to be an artist, but you ended up becoming a serial killer instead." He was unsure how he felt at that moment. It was not akin to anger, though it still gripped his chest with the same searing intensity. He let it sink into his heart; even then, it was a mystery to him. "Your files tell your life story, but they can never tell what has never been said. I believe you never told anyone why you started your art."

"I did say why," it was difficult to find his voice under the weight of nothingness, "you stated it yourself. The day my eye—"

"No, I'm not talking about what molded you into a psychopath. I want to know what drove you to become an artist, what interested you so much about art that you decided to be a war photography. There's no accurate record anywhere as to why you got your hands onto a camera, and you never told anyone here why either. I think I know why that is."

"Tell me then, if you're so knowledgeable."

"I think the reason you haven't told anyone is that you're as much in the dark as they are. You don't know why yourself, of why you were drawn to art; you wouldn't be able to reply if you were asked. How can you answer a question you don't have the answer to?"

"…Why…" He didn't know what was more damming, the fact that he didn't know how to respond to the claim or the fact that the horrendous application was all too real. "Why are you here?"

"You have many flaws, some are irreversible, but the one commonality they have is that they stem from your memory. Or lack thereof. Whatever is left of your memory is corrupt, which is why I picked my questions carefully. Which ties into the main purpose of why I am here. I know your memories are in there somewhere if we’re lucky we might be able to bring some back. Now I'm not a doctor or a psychologist, nor am not your enemy, I'm not here to aggravate you or cause you any more pain. I am someone who wants to help you. Valentini, look at me." He did as he was told and revisited the steady dark eyes, he had not realized he had looked away, they were so emblazoned in his mind. "You need to believe in me." At that moment, he was able to identify the emotion eating at his insides and overwhelming his senses. Despair was something he rarely experienced, but he welcomed the sentiment with open arms.

"You don't know me, do you?" his throat had become dry, and his voice could not help but falter and erode to a shriveled whisper. The keen eyes instantly molded to a look of pity. How cruel was the world?

"Um, I don't mean to interrupt, but Mr. Castellanos, your visitation time is up." Strange, he had not heard the door open.

"Damn, that's it." The man sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "Sorry we have to cut off now, but at least think about what I have said, they have more meaning than you think… Hopefully, I'll get to see you again, Valentini." He winked, and he may have chuckled at the gesture, but his chest continued to sink as his masterpiece began to leave.

"Wait…" with a simple word, the man has already turned around. He wanted to see those eyes so badly. "Come back to see me. That is all I ask of you." His masterpiece smiled.

"I'm not done with you yet, Valentini. Don't worry, I'll be back that I can promise." That was all he needed to hear to, comfortably leaned back against the wall and watch longingly as the man left the room. The words of the orderly faint echoes to his ears as he felt himself smile, though his lips quivered.

"You don't know me… Sebastian."

Φ

He could never stand the sound of crying.

Cries of pain, agony, and despair held an appealing sense of entertainment that kept him amused while creating. However, the crying that contained nothing but uncontrollable emotion, hiccupping between gasps of breath, and a twisted expression that most would pity, left a sour taste in his mouth. It was ugly in nature and let one open themselves up to further hurt and ridicule. If adults sobbing got on his nerves, then the sound of a child balling their eyes out got under his skin like a rusty nail. The cries were only an echo of an echo, but with how in tune he had become with the CORE, it was akin to nails on a chalkboard. He had thought the Grand Theater would be a much more suitable atmosphere for the act of creation, and the CORE would be more responsive compared to when she was in his galleries.

Apparently, the irking sobs only became more intense as she disappeared into the theater. He had not lost her; he could feel the strength from her beacon of power if he were on the other side of Union. He could feel her presence and hear her voice, but he could not see her. He phased to every point in the theater where her essence was strongest, but he only appeared in an empty room. It became frustrating the third time, and then worrisome the tenth time. He cursed to himself as he came up empty-handed once more, appearing on the theater stage with a nonexistent audience. Well, on this plane of Union.

On another a crowd of Union citizens sat confused and frightened in the dark, not knowing they were soon to become another one of his masterpieces, the greatest. It hit him then, he had left the CORE of this plane of existence, the base plan, but with the sudden surges of her power she could not control, she could have accidentally sent herself to another plane without him noticing. To his knowledge, there were only two other planes besides the base. He had created one where he kept his galleries and created new works of art. The other, where he had complete control over the very earth itself, where he already had a scene set for his prolonged masterpiece to be created.

He chuckled to himself. With as much as a fleeting thought, he was enveloped in a blaze of azure flames that dissipated as soon as they sparked to life. He found himself in front of a live audience, though he could not see any faces, it wasn't due to the dimmed lighting. The power of the CORE flooded through his veins by merely breathing in the stale air, she was here. The cries never ceased, but now seemed to come from everywhere at once, ringing in his head and breaking the strict focus he usually processed. So, when the sudden high-pitched scream of terror raked against his ears, he winced at the sharp sting in his head, his camera lens flickered. Despite the sudden ringing in his ears, he was now able to pinpoint her exact location. He was instantly able to identify what caused the CORE such distress as soon as he entered the red room.

Obscura was a beautiful in many ways, her long sturdy legs, contorted slender torso, and her camera of a visage completed her to be a being that was to be beheld and treasured. However, he would be lying to himself if he said she could not be freighting in any form. Especially when the mix of excitement and instinct got the best of her, and the grace of her slow spider-esque gait would be replaced with more exuberant moans and the predatory pounce that led her stomping after her prey.

Currently, she had her interest peaked under a table that held many of his photographs, a white cloth had been placed over it, obscuring what could be hiding underneath. His creation was moaning softly and peeking her camera underneath the fabric where the cries could be heard, this only seemed to excite her more.

"Obscura." He spoke firmly, and his creation instantly retraced her head from underneath the table. "Come." The command had her stepping over quickly towards him and stopping in front of him, though she was hardly still as her head continued to bob and weave, and her three legs tapped themselves of the ground impulsively. Since she was on a high, it would be difficult for her to come back down from the euphoria. He could relate to her in that sense. At the current moment, her enthusiasm was greatly needed. "You know where, my Angel is yes?" a sharp trill was his response. "Guard it from the philistine, he's already destroyed enough of my art. Do not let him ruin this piece. Go." The command was ignored as Obscura continued to shuffle in front of him, chirping all the while. "Go, Obscura." His creation's camera lens shuttered as it reached out to him. He sighed in frustration.

Out of all his creations, his Aperture was the one that obeyed him without hesitation as if it were a connected limb that could be commanded with a simple thought. The most unruly out of all of them being the Guardian, which rarely listened to a simple command and it had spread itself into multiple entities to become a gaggling pack, at least they did the simple task of mutilating any intruders that roamed the city streets. Obscura was different; she obeyed his orders for the most part but had a mind of her, which led her to be more of a wandering bird who would explore her environment until she was called upon. When she became exuberant, it was more challenging to get her to comply, as shown currently when she began to nudge his shoulder.

"Stop it, go, I say." He lightly pushed her head away, she moaned loudly, and her long neck arched backward, her head gesturing towards the table. Once her head was back pushing at him, he understood her disobedience. He took her head in his gloved hands and rubbed the sides of her camera with his thumbs. "Yes, you found her for me, thank you… such a good girl you are. I adore you ever so much." He softly kissed her bright lens. His Obscura cooed excitingly, her happy demeanor doubling as she practically bounced and her bobbed back and forth. That was another trait they had in common. They both had the need to be praised for their work, he liked to believe he had a better habit to hide this tendency compared to his Obscura. "Now go, I know you won't disappoint me." She finally obeyed his commands, and with a final moan, she stomped off into the darkness to complete her task. He turned his attention back to the table. The crying had lessened to a quiet sniffle, and he saw a small silhouette shift from behind the white cloth.

He could simply reach behind the cloth and snatch the CORE by her little arm, as he had done before. However, the worry of her disappearing again had him rethink his approach. He couldn't remember the last time he talked to a child, he knew they possessed a great innocence that made them easy to manipulate and control, but they could also turn on their manipulator just as easily with a red flag. Taking a deep breath, he crouched down beside the table though he did not touch the cloth, not yet. Being so close to the CORE, he could feel the waves of her radiating energy wash over him like a cool breeze.

"Did my Obscura scare you, _Bambina_?" He spoke in a tone as friendly as he could possibly muster, it was most akin to how he would talk when praising his creations. "I don't blame you most people are, but I won't let her trouble you any longer, I promise." The figure only shifted further back away from him. " _Bambina_ , I will bring no harm to you. If pain is what you fear, there is no need _.” That is not what you should be afraid of._ “Is that why your crying? Because of fear. That is understandable but is not appreciated. You shouldn't cry, it's an unruly habit to develop at your age. Your crying is what led my Obscura to you if you're not quiet other creatures will come get you. If you are hiding there because you believe it will protect you from anything out here, you won’t last very long."

"… You're wrong." A small voice whispered from behind the white curtain.

"Oh, I beg to differ, I could simply reach in there and rip you out from there and you wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop me." He caught himself as he saw the silhouette shift further back with a squeal, almost disappearing completely. "But I won't _Bambina_. Please tell me why you believe I'm 'wrong.'" There was a long pause of silence before the soft voice spoke up again.

"W-well… I know I won't be safe, but it makes me feel better… It's too scary out there, but it doesn't make me cry. I don't cry because I'm scared."

"Then, why are you crying?"

"I don't think you'll understand… You don't look like you understand sadness." Sadness, of course, that was the culprit. Sadness was as much as a burden, as crying, it was a sickening depressant that killed other emotions one could possibly enjoy.

"Why, of course, I understand, sadness. I know it is more on the depressing side of the emotional range and is what can lead to many potential illnesses, in fact. I know that when people experience it, it makes them less inclined to do anything besides weep in their own self-pity. It makes people feel worthless as a person, which is why I chose to let my sadness go."

"You can get rid of sadness?"

"Certainly, though not everyone is strong of will enough to not let their emotions consume them. I learned that during war, such a cruel yet beautiful thing. It taught me how to rid myself of sadness, among other elements. It can be rather easy, once you find what the source is of your sadness. _Bambina,_ what is making you sad?"

"I don't like thinking about it… So, it's hard for me to tell you…"

"I understand, I can see you've been through so much. If you do not wish to discuss your sadness maybe, we can talk about something that gives you happiness. What do you like to do that makes you happy?" He could see the silhouette open up to him.

"I like to draw…" He smiled.

"That is absolutely wonderful, I like the arts myself. I am an artist and I've seen some of your pieces around my gallery. The use of ink is not my preference of art choice; however, I can still admire the drawn works as well. In fact, I believe we have a future artist in the making."

"Really?"

"In all honesty, I have beheld some pieces that are truly masterpieces."

"… I’ve seen some of your art… It’s the pictures of dead people, right?" _Dying_ people if she wanted to be exact.

"Correct. My preferred medium of artistic expression is photography. It is how I artistically express myself. Do you like them?"

"I… I don't like the death or blood, but they do look pretty in a way. I can't explain it clearly… they make it so I can look away from all the monsters."

"And me… Am I a monster?" He saw the silhouette move closer to the cloth. Very slowly, small fingers appeared around the edge of the curtain before tugging it back slightly, a bright blue eye peaked from the small opening. From his previous encounters, he figured out even with his mangled face, his appearance to most did not come off as threatening; his intent was what frightened people. Hopefully, as the CORE gazed upon him, it would be different from their first face to face encounter. The shinning eye looked up at him with curiosity and hesitance. It looked eerily familiar in a way, the hue was similar to his own, though it held a spark of innocence he could not possess. There was something else that made it so nostalgic, but he could not quite place it at the moment. The makeshift curtain was pulled back further to show both vibrant stunning eyes on the youthful face.

"You were, but not now. You’re different from everything else here… Do you want to see some of my pictures?" she made a gesture for him to come closer. He would prefer not to crawl under a table into a cramped space, but he knew it would appease the CORE.

"Why certainly." The tinge of fading sadness in her eyes, encouraged him to move forwards. What he needed, was the child-like essence of fear, sadness would corrupt that raw emotion. He pulled back the white curtain and nearly gasped in shock of what his eye beheld. It was bright at first, even stung his eye a little, before he could adequately assess what he was gazing upon. The underneath of the table was much bigger than he had anticipated. In fact, it looked to be the size of a small room, almost like a walk-in closet. No evidence of the outside world around them shown, creamy ember walls made of a silky draping curtains made up the room with bopping spirits of light of many hues illuminated the room in a shifting glow of brilliance from behind the curtains. As he went deeper into the small wonderland, he found himself shifting onto a ground that was as plush and soft as satin sheets, and he could only sit on his knees in shock. Decorating the draping walls were children drawings come to life as dancing pictures filled with playful energy, shifting from one image to another in a fashion that mirrored a silver screen.

"You made all this?"

"I think so, I'm not sure. You were right, I was scared of the camera head lady, so I hid here; I just wanted to get away from everything. All I could think about how I wanted to go home and be in my room, and then all of I sudden… this all happened." She gestured to the world around her, her eyes more vivacious than ever. "I remember those drawings; I drew that one when my mom and me went to the park, and that one was my first time going to the carnival, this one was when me and my…" the sweet voice of the CORE continued on with the pure essence of a child.

This was her doing, he could feel her spirit within the magnificent creation, and it was only a genuine spark of what true potential she held. This was not of his plane, but of one that sat between his own and the base, being in a created limbo to keep itself stable. All of this was created by a thought of a little girl who could not even grasp the world around her. The creation astounded him. It was the world bending to the mind of a child to bring imagination into existence. It was raw innocence in a world full of death and cruelty, and it was beautiful. You truly are an artist.

"Do you like it?" the question pulled him back to attention.

"It is absolutely beautiful." He looked back to the CORE and smiled at her.

"T-thank you…" a glimmer of hope gleamed in her eyes.

"I believe you have…” A sudden spark, the blaze of a fire, the illumination of God. He saw them all within the depths of his aperture. “Do you feel that?"

"Feel what? It’s a little warmer in here, is that what you feel?" Warm would not be enough to describe the heat as he felt the members of the overwhelming presence arise. It was not here, but it would be soon.

" _Bambina_ , I want you to stay here, for the time being, I have some business to take care of. As long as you stay in here, no harm will come to you."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, but there's a monster out there, and trust me, this is the monster you need to fear."

Φ

"Keep your back to me, Valentini, and don't even think about moving away from me." A guard from behind commanded him. The straps of his straight jacket were being undone. He could already feel himself be able to breathe again, even with all the guards surrounding him, watching his every move. It was a great relief once the horrid thing was removed from his body, and he could properly move his aching joints. For only a few moments, before he was moved onto his bed, where another set of restraints had been installed. There was not any true freedom anymore. The guards attached the rough restraints around his ankles, but not the one for his wrists. He had not taken his medicine yet. One of the orderlies was preparing his medication now. He felt exhausted, even without the assistance of drugs though in truth, if they provided any aid in helping him sleep, he could not tell. It was a rare occasion for him to be so physically and mentally drained, his mind was always thinking, creating and being restrained for so long proved that he had more stored energy than he had known. However, now, he did not feel like doing anything, who knew a conversation was all it took to wear him down to the bone. He was not tired enough to not react to the light graze on his back, he turned his head to see an orderly messing with his pillow.

"What are you doing?" his words came out as a slur, and a tone of voice that was accusatory, but not threatening. It was enough, though, for the orderly to jump on the spot.

"J-just adjusting your pillow, Valentini, sir. I'm basically paid to clean the rooms of nutjobs, so I'm not the one you need to worry about." The orderly placed the pillow back in its place and made himself scarce.

"Alright, Mr. Valentini, I have your medicine ready." The other orderly proclaimed, moving to hand him the bright pills.

"Give it to me." the guard grabbed the pills from the orderly too quick for any sort of reaction. Before he knew any better, a hand was slapped over his mouth, and the pills were forced down his gorge. It pained his dry throat as he desperately swallowed the invasive discs; he nearly choked from how many he gulped down at once. He hacked violently, burning his lungs and hunching over in hopes of easing his pain. It did not last long as he roughly pushed back down onto the hard bed by his shoulders, he reflexively reached his arms up, but they were promptly slammed down to his sides where restraints were tied around them. Collapsed on the bed, he began heaving in fresh air for his lungs, he was undoubtedly alert now, though the spike of adrenaline nearly gave him a headache.

"What are you doing?!" the orderly screeched, an anger that was rarely beheld radiating from his eyes.

"You know how long it takes for him to eat his damn pills. I just quickened the process."

"He could have chocked."

"He's fucking fine, David. Don't make his pain, yours." The orderly brushed him off and came to his bedside.

"He's restrained now Jack; it’s your time to leave."

"Fine, be like that. You keep this up and one of these days a psycho might end up slitting your throat. See you in the morning." He left the cell and then the room with the other guards following. The orderly above him sighed in frustration.

"I apologize for his behavior; he's had an off day."

"I don't really care what he does." His voice was hoarse, and his throat hurt when he spoke, he continued. "I’m tired. If you let me rest, hopefully, I'll find some peace."

"Okay, I'll let you sleep, but before you drift off, please listen to me." He turned his gaze away from the ceiling to the orderly, who crouched down beside him. "I know you don't, like it here. Just because they put 'St. Eden' in front of 'mental asylum,' it doesn't make this place appear any better. But I want to assure you that this is a hospital for second chances. You were given the chance to be helped, and not executed like some animal. I wish someone had given my brother that chance. So, please don't take this for granted." It was a plea; it was a strange occurrence to have someone put so much faith in him. Maybe it was not unusual; he had heard a similar plea earlier today. He could not believe in either of them.

"I wouldn't be so faithful, but I may take that chance." He tried his best to smile, it hurt. A grin was returned to him.

"Alright then, I'll let you sleep now." The orderly stood back up, and left the cell with his companion, locking it behind him. The lights turned off. He was unsure of how many days of insanity he could take. It was painfully mind-numbing, if maybe he could use his hands, he could find anything to numb the pain. He couldn’t though, here was a cruel place that only brought suffering, and his masterpiece was a cruel man for feeding him lies. Neither had a promise of getting any better. All could do was close his eye and hope tonight's dream, would be a better world than the one he was living in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading, I really enjoy writing this story and I hope you all enjoyed reading it. See you next chapter!


	3. Death's Art in Hell's Iniquity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Evil Within. This story will contain, blood, gore, violence, and dark themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

“You’re awfully quiet today... Something is bothering you; I can tell. You don’t mind telling me what it is, do you?... Is it because of your restraints? You should not let them bother you too much; at your status, they’ll be gone in a couple of weeks ... Not the restraints I see, well is it due to what transpired last night. The staff mishandled the situation, I apologize for that, but I assure you it will not happen again as long as you’re on good behavior.”

“What if I’m not?”

“Hm?”

“What if I’m not on good behavior? What if I decide not to listen to you anymore? I don’t have to take my medicine, I don’t have to stay in that cell, I don’t have to sit here and listen to you drone on like a broken record. No, I used to be so much more than what you have reduced me to. I have every right to claim back what you took from me.”

“... You’re not wrong. You can try and be the person you once were, but that will never happen.”

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“I am. You will never reclaim anything, for we never took anything from you. We didn’t reduce you to a lesser form of yourself, you came to us like that, broken. We’re just trying to help put you back together and bring you out of your delusions.”

“Is that why you let him visit me? Because he claims that he will make me remember.”

“The reason I let Mr. Castellanos continue to visit you is because he gets a reaction from you that I am unable to trigger. It’s truly fascinating how you behave in his mere presence.”

“You didn’t answer the question, doctor. I have to always answer your questions, so the least you can do is answer one of mine.”

“Yes, a part of the reason I let him visit is to aid in memory recovery. I learned to trust him.”

“Why? He is no psychologist or doctor or anything that has to do with psychological manipulation. What is it that makes him the one to tell me who I was, who I am supposed to be?”

“... I have my reasons.”

“There you are again, doctor.”

“I would tell you if I could. Trust me, some things are better off left unknowing.”

“Like my memories. You tried bringing them back, but you could not achieve it for months, so you gave up. Apparently, you need a murderous bastard’s help to bring them back.”

“I didn’t give up on you, I simply wanted to take a break since it was doing nothing but putting more stress on you. Listen, I’m trying to help you, if you believe I’m not then you’re wrong, I’m already planning to arrange more visits.”

“Yes, because that requires true grit, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not just Mr. Castellanos I want you to talk to.”

“Who else do you have in mind?”

“I cannot give out names, but I know you’ll get some entertainment from his visitation. I apologize for all the unclear responses I have given, but everything I say or do has a purpose, even if you may not understand it. I know it’s difficult for you—"

“Hush!”

“... Excuse me?”

“Don’t speak...”

“...?”

“... Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“... The voice.”

“I don’t hear any voices, but I’m assuming you do?”

“...”

“Mr. Valentini, are you hearing something I’m not?”

“... Maybe.”

“I need you to focus. What is the voice saying?”

“It’s not saying anything... she’s crying.”

“Crying, do you know why?”

“... No. They've never cried before.”

“I see... Have you been taking your medicine?”

“Oh, o-of course I have doctor, you have no need to worry. It’s gone now, I was probably drifting off again and thinking I heard something that was never said. You can forget everything I just said, it is foul nonsense. You were talking about visitation before I so rudely cut you off; I apologize you may continue.”

“... You have asked me before what would happen if you decided not to listen to what you have been told. Well, Mr. Valentini, if you were to go on “bad behavior,” we will handle you accordingly.”

“Whatever you are thinking it isn’t true, I have been taking my medicine, I have been staying in my cell, and yes, I will sit here and listen to every word you say. There’s proof of it.”

“Yes, just like there’s proof of the smiling man that attacked you in the bathrooms.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that I have a difficult time trying to figure out what is the truth. You can tell me you’ve been taking your medication, and there is even video evidence of you doing so—"

“Exactly, cameras never lie.”

“Yes, but you do.”

“Doctor I’m telling the truth—"

“Well, then Mr. Valentini, if you're claiming that you have been truthful, you won’t mind if I increase your medication dosage. Clearly the amount, I’m prescribing you now is ineffective?”

“... No, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Perfect, and you wouldn’t mind getting blood tests to prove that you have indeed been taking your medication.”

“What?”

“Was I not clear? If you have been taking your medicine, it should be in your system at this very moment. Getting a blood test would show that.”

“I know, but I was recently in the treatment center, can’t you just use information from the previous tests.”

“We could, but what would that prove? That you were taking your medicine three weeks ago, sure, but I’m wondering about right now. Take the blood test now, and I may just believe you for once. Or are you refusing to take it?”

“No, I’m just— You can’t send me down there.”

“Technically, I could send you to treatment, regardless if you want to or not.”

“Isn’t there any other way?”

“Why certainly, I could move you to solitary confinement on Level 0, if that is what you prefer. We will be able to monitor you more closely and see if you're telling the truth.”

“God, no, never again.”

“Then, will you take the blood test?”

“... Goddamn...”

“Will you take the blood test, Mr. Valentini?”

“... Yes... Yes, I will, and I will take my medication as well.”

“Great, I’ll have you sent down right away. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You’re welcome, Doctor.”

Φ

It was cold in the medical room. It always held the chilling atmosphere of stale air, reeking the stench of old blood and chemicals that left a toxic taste on his tongue. The white artificial lights made the white walls and floor even more blinding, and illuminated his pale skin, which nearly matched the hue of the walls. It was difficult for him to recall the last time he stepped foot outside and bathed in the sun’s rays, the absence of sunlight leading to his complexion to be a rather ghostly one. If the room itself was not sickening enough, the uncomfortable metal chair he was strapped to worsened his sickness, his wrists and ankles stung under the cold steel. He was stuck between which was worse, the chair or the restraint jacket. But after sitting in the chair for well over thirty minutes waiting to be pricked full of needles, the chair became the clear victor. His waiting soon came to an end when the door opened, and in came the physician followed by two of his assistants. The assistants carting in a trolley caring syringes, bandages, and alcohol along with other medical supplies; he only focused on the needles. 

“I heard someone’s been naughty.” The physician chuckled. Seeing the smirk that adorned the physician’s face, had him fighting back a glare; at least one person was glad to be here. “Sam’s told me you haven’t been taken your meds. Mr. Stefano, why would you ever want to do that? Don’t you know the medicine we give you is to help quiet those voices in your head.”

“The doctor is wrong; he's trying to make me seem like a liar. I have been taking my medication." He replied to the physician.

“Of course, you have. Well, today's test is going to reveal if you're telling the truth or not, isn't it?” The physician went behind him to the counters, and he heard running water from the sink’s tap. “Oh, and sorry for the delay. One of my long-term patients decided to swallow batteries, and I had to get him to cough it up. The smell of battery acid and vomit mixed together was absolutely disgusting, poor guy probably won’t be able to swallow anything for a few weeks.”

“How could he have gotten batteries; I’m not even allowed to use pens?”

“Accidents happen. Some orderlies are forgetful after they leave a patient’s room, leaving behind all manner of things: blood-soaked rags, pieces of broken glass, even a container of bleach once. I tell you unless you want a slow and painful death when you kill yourself, don’t drink sodium hypochlorite. Rest in Hell, Thomas.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The physician came back into sight, putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“You know how this goes, please no screaming, thrashing, biting, spitting, or any other disgusting behavior while being treated or more encouraging reinforcement shall be applied. If you have any issue, please address the leading physician, me.” It was the same repetitive speech given to him before every treatment, he had not broken procedure for a long time, so it was useless to give him the noneffective lecture. He looked over to the assistants who were preparing the syringes and bandages, but he noticed something else on the trolley he had not seen before.

“What do you have there?” he asked, still eyeing the foreign substance.

“Oh, this,” the physician picked up the small distinct container of a clear thick liquid. “I forgot to mention it. This is the new drug that was gifted to the asylum. It’s supposed to be a stress-relieving agent given to treat patients during testing.” 

“What is it going to do to me?” he already felt horrible about taking the new drug; he was already taking enough medication was he not.

“Like I said, it’s a stress-reliever. It’s going to calm your nerves; I can tell you’re on edge.” He took a syringe from one of his assistants before filling it with the liquid drug. “This is gonna make you feel all better.” The physician smiled, tapping the now filled syringe. “Now, would you please allow these fine gentlemen to aid me in injecting this shot?”

“I doubt I have a choice in the matter.”

“You’d be right about that. Boys, if you would please.” The assistants moved to stand at either side of the chair. He jerked back as sudden hands grabbed him around his head, keeping him still and tilting his head upwards. He only realized what was happening when he felt the rough leather be strapped around his nose and mouth. The brown muzzle hindered his breathing and irritated his facial scars as it was tightened around his head. “Sorry for the muzzle, but without it, you would most likely bite my friends’ fingers off. Just like you did with the smiling man.” He groaned from behind the muzzle, as the assistants kept his head turned to the side, exposing his neck. He involuntarily shuddered when he felt the cold, wet touch of an alcohol-drenched cotton ball press against the side of his neck. 

“Don’t flinch too much, you wouldn't want me to miss.” He was unprepared for the needle that suddenly pierced into his neck; it was promptly followed by a fierce burning sensation, which caused his muscles to tense as the drug was forced into his bloodstream. It only lasted for a couple of seconds before the needle was pulled out, but the burning sensation still lingered; in fact, he could feel it begin to spread. His head was released, and he slouched in the chair as a sudden wave of dizziness fell upon him. It was challenging to move, he felt numb in his own body, yet he was still highly aware of his situation. He could hear his heart pounding slowly in his chest and his labored breathing through strained lungs. “See, doesn’t that feel good.” No, not in the slightest, it had him more on edge than anything else, but he struggled to speak, and if he could, he highly doubted he would be able to be understood with the muzzle distorting his words. 

“Let’s begin, shall we.” He felt a rubber strip be tied tightly around his arm, followed by the moisture of an alcoholic wipe. The sharp point of the syringe's needle dragged down his arm, searching for the right place to plunge into his veins. “You’re going to feel a little pinch.” The physician said, sticking him with the needle. It was more than just a ‘little pinch.’ He felt the needle pierce and tear apart layers of skin and disrupt his bloodstream’s natural flow. It felt akin to being stabbed with how the pain fiercely burned and traveled through his arm, his muscles flexed like a metal cord to stop the invading blade. He looked down at his arm, and he could see why it hurt so much. The needle was much larger than usual, and he was growing sick, seeing the amount of blood that would eventually fill the syringe. It was filling up unappealingly slow to the physician, and he let out a groan. “You have such tiny veins. I’m barely getting anything, maybe if I just…” he began to twist the needle in deeper, tearing through more skin and flesh in search of a proper vein. He hissed at the increased pain and stirring discomfort, and reflexively tried to flinch away, but he could barely lift a finger. Was the madman even pulling back the plunger? 

“Still nothing, it seems. Fortunately, I have another idea since this is going oh so painfully slow. Boys hand me another syringe, would you please.” He hardly had time to process what had been said before another needle was stabbed into his arm, it just as searing as the previous one. “Another, please.” He cringed at the third needle and fought against the urge to close his eye. “Oh, I know there’s more up there, give me another.” The fourth had him biting his tongue. “Nearly perfect. Use the rest of them on the other arm, please and thank you.” The assistants obeyed wordlessly, moving to his right before tying the tourniquet tight around his arm. The needles followed suit. “Ah, perfection. Since you are so stingy with your blood, we need to get innovative in the methods in which we extract it. If you have any grips, just tell me now?” he glared at the madman full of ire, which only made his grin widen. 

“Don’t be mad at me, Mr. Stefano. The person to be mad at is you, after all, you brought this upon yourself. Someone should have been a good patient and took their medicine.” He wanted to beat the madman until he drowned in a pool of his own blood, but any intention to do so was foiled by the restraints. Even if they were gone, he could not have mustered the will to move his body with any reasonable force. It was as if he was an unmoving doll, stabbed and pierced with pins and needles for pure amusement. He was not affected by pain regularly, but his entire body had never been so sensitive before. He could feel every searing cut, piercing stab, and tearing of the skin as the “professionals” worked their magic. A nauseating sickness began to rise in the back of his throat, and is vision went white momentarily as they became overwhelmed by the blinding lights, and his whole body began to lock up.

It would be over; eventually, the maniacs would be given all the blood they wanted, and he would be able to go back to his room. But would that really be the end of it? He could be sent back down to this wretched place the next day, and the next day after that, spilling into the next week, month even. The world was cruel, he knew that, but why was he the one to never be spared a moment of its cruelty. Might have been the force of karma, him paying his dues, it could be the fact that he was simply caught and happened to be sent to this evil hell, or maybe he internally wanted retribution for his own actions and unknowingly punished himself. Whatever the reason may be, it did not matter. He would not be able to change anything if he knew the reason for it being anyway.

“You look tense, Mr. Stefano. I thought it would satisfy you to witness the sight of your own blood, seeing as you have masochistic tendencies.” The madman chuckled. “Well, I guess the reliever only lasts for a few minutes. Not to worry, though, we have plenty.” He reached over to the trolley and filled another syringe with the clear liquid; he did not even bother wiping down his neck before sticking the needle into him.

At that moment, a surge of his energy returned to him, ignoring the pain, he twisted his head away and tugged at his restraints. The resulting chaos ensued. The needle in his neck being torn out, spilling its contents, an assistant was caught off guard causing him to nearly fall over in fright, and multiple syringes become detached from their needles. They fell to the floor with a clatter, shattering on impact and staining the pristine white floor and the madman's coat with his crimson lifeblood. 

“Goddamn you, look at what you’ve done! You're so overdramatic, were you hurting that bad?!” the madman shouted, throwing his hands into the air. For the first time since he entered the room, he appeared genuinely frustrated. “You ruinedeverything; you damn wretch. I hope you're proud of yourself, all of this has gone to waste because of you. My other patients are never as unruly as you, why is that?” The muzzle was harshly torn off his face, the rough edges irritating his skin further. He was able to breathe properly without a filter at least; he used this chance to speak:

“Whatever do you mean? I’m told I’m quite lovely to be around.” He snickered.

“I’m sure they tell you a lot of nice things. I don’t understand what they see in you up there, you’re nothing, but a goddamn nightmare to deal with.”

“You simply bring out the worst in me is all. I am certain you have that effect on a lot of people, it’s not a mystery why everyone hates you. You’re quite the pathetic excuse for a physician.” The needles in his left arm were mercilessly torn out, leaving behind oozing holes of blood to leak down and mix with the puddle on the floor.

“Oh, just you wait and see you sick bastard.” The madman spat in his face. “You thought that black abyss was hell. You’ll only experience true hell once you’re stuck down here with me. I’ll—” 

“Doctor Morris, there’s been a code blue. You are needed in Sector Six on Level 0.” The voice of an older woman came over the intercom. The man turned his attention over to the intercom with a scowl.

“Dammit, Peter must be having another episode.” The man tossed the needles onto the trolley, and his demeanor changed quickly to one of professionalism. “Well, looks like your appointment has to be cut short today, but don’t freight you were generous enough to provide the perfect number of samples.” The physician pulled out the remaining needles in his arm, as well did the assistants. “We’ll send the nurses in to clean you up a bit and take you back to your room. The results should be in later this week,” the physician smirked at him. “I hope to see you very very soon, Mr. Stefano.” 

They were quick to rush out of the room, careful not to step on the shattered glass or his blood before they were replaced with garbed nurses and guards. The nurses were quick at their jobs, cutting the tight tourniquets off his arms, which was relieving as they had begun restricting blood flow, and he had nearly lost the feeling in his fingers. They cleaned the blood off his arms seemingly unfazed, before lazily wrapping gauze around them which instantly started to bleed through and stick a cotton band-aid on the injection points on his neck. Once their job was completed, they left for the guards to do theirs who unstrapped him from the metal chair only to restrain him into a wheelchair. 

He loathed the treatment center.

When he was wheeled at the room, he was met with the familiar face of an orderly. One, he did not prefer, in fact.

“You don’t look happy to see me. Hope that doesn’t mean you want to kill me.” The orderly nervously chuckled.

“It’s just you?”

“Yeah, well, David is talking with the doc and Jacks “attending” to another patient, so your stuck with Ward and me for the time being.” He was slightly unnerved when he could not see the orderly anymore as he went behind him to push the wheelchair. “Please, don’t be trouble. Let’s be honest here if you were to try to kill me you would... actually succeed, and then you would just be in more trouble than you already are; it’s a lose-lose situation. So, please refrain from any violent urges, and we’ll have a safe journey. Alright?”

“Let’s move, Isaac, we're on a time crunch.” The guard said, already walking down the hall.

“Right!” the orderly began rolling him down the hall beside the guard. As they went, the chilling air follows, though it was different. It was still uncomfortably cold, but the scent of blood was much more potent, and it only added to the bitter taste in the air. The echoing sounds of screeching animals and loud crashing accompanied to the ambiance. It was too stale for his tastes.

“Mr. Hayes, I want to ask you a question.”

“Who me?” the orderly asked, surprised.

“Yes, you, is that strange?”

“O-Oh no sir, it's just that you never talk to me, can't even remember the last time you did. What did Morris do to you to actually make you want to talk to me?”

“If you simply took the time to look at my arms, it would be quite obvious, or do you need to be strapped down to that damn chair to figure it out.”

“Sorry, forgot Morris has a streak of being, "innovative". Can’t really believe he’s still here after the mass revision... So, what were you saying before?” he internally groaned. There was a reason he did not speak with the idiot.

“I’m going to ask you a question, so pay attention if you can… You are one of the men present in my morning and night routines, correct.”

“Yes? That would be correct.”

“You are also one of the men who are there when I am given my medication, correct?”

“Yes, I am. Why would you ask me that exactly?”

“Don't question, I just want you to listen, you’re doing well so far. Let’s see how good you use your ears on this question. You are also one of the men there when I ingest said medication, correct?”

“Technically, yes—”

“So, technically, you would see me taking my medication, yes?” There was a pause before the orderly answered with uncertainty.

“W-Well, I can’t say if I do or if I don’t really.”

“Why, can’t you find an answer? It’s a simple question, I thought even you would be able to answer it.”

“It’s not that I can’t, it's that I need time to properly answer that question.” 

“Fine I’ll put it in simpler terms for you, do you believe I take my medicine?”

“Uh… so are you asking for my opinion on the matter?”

“Isaac, stop talking to him, you’re just going to end up making a fool of yourself.” The guard interjected into the conversation as he turned his steely gaze over to him. “I know where you're trying to get at, Valentini. Do you think it really matters to the doctors if we tell them that you take your pills? Our word means almost as much as yours. It won’t do a damn thing if we say you’re not a liar, they don’t care.”

“Can’t blame me for trying.” He glanced over at the guard and his looming frame. “But, Mr. Ward, I must ask you, how come I’m being accused of this now? You know something is amiss here.”

“No, there isn’t. This is coming to light now because you're starting to show signs of your psychosis returning; your sense of reality is waning, and it shows. If you didn't want this to be an issue, you shouldn't have told the doctor you heard voices. The high functioning parts of your psychopathy can only protect you for so long before that, too, will degrade. I don’t know why that Castellanos guy continues to come here. He’s not going to be able to get anything from you, you can hardly remember to keep your mouth shut.”

“He never mentioned getting anything from me.” He glared at the guard. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m trying to say that your “memories” are… something of value to him.”

“How?”

“I’m certain you can just ask him about it the next time he visits. Though I think someone else is coming to visit you. Wasn’t notified who it was, but just know you’ll see a new face.”

“It’s most likely just a psychiatrist coming to psychoanalyze me, seeing as I’m not getting any “better,” and the great doctor can’t help me all on his lonesome.”

“Maybe.” They came to the end of the hall to an elevator. The guard swiped his card through the scanner, and he pressed the upwards arrow.

“Mr. Ward, I have one final thing to ask you.” He stated as they waited for the elevator.

“Ask it now, cause once we get in the elevator, I’ll stop entertaining questions.”

“All the people who are coming to visit… do you think they’ll be able to help me?” The guard returned his gaze to him, his grey eyes scrutinizing.

“You want me to be honest?” he nodded, and the guard continued to stare. He briefly wondered what could have been going through the guard’s head, he did not have to wonder for long. 

“No." The guard turned back to the elevator doors as they opened. "I don’t think anyone can.” 

“Hm, that’s the only thing you have said, that I believe.” They went into the elevator in silence. 

Φ

The restraint jacket was even more troublesome than before. He had initially thought he would adjust to its constant presence, but it only got worse by the day, causing his skin to feel horribly irritated, and his lack of mobility made him stir crazy. It felt so wrong. It would be the least of his worries in a minute as he waited for his new visitor to arrive. He hated waiting almost nearly as much as whoever was coming to see him. He did not even know who precisely was coming to visit, but he had already felt an intense hatred for the person. He assumed it was probably because they were not Sebastian. It had been too long since he had last seen his masterpiece, and the need to view him grew stronger by the day. He knew the newcomer would not satisfy him with their presence as Sebastian would. The man promised to come back, and he expected him to keep it. 

He stopped himself from thinking of such things and decided he needed to keep himself entertained. Usually, he would take the time to “sketch” on his desk, but seeing as it was impossible without his hands, he had to resort to other forms of entertainment. With nothing but silence lingering in the air, he filled the void with his voice. He closed his eye and began to hum the song in his head. It was reserved only for when he was in the washrooms, but he was willing to make an exception for today. It was relaxing to hear the melody trapped in his head aloud, a soft toon to loosen his tense muscles and calm the racing thoughts filling his mind. He was able to find comfort in the melody and put his worries to ease as the song vibrated through him. 

It was much louder than before and had an echo that was hardly heard. It was strange at first but became much more alarming when the echoes became louder to the ear. He peeked open his eye but saw no one else. Why did the voices come at the most inopportune of times? But this voice was different than most. It was male for one, and much clearer than all the others. He let his voice quiet down, as he went softer the echoes only became louder, no not louder, closer. He opened his eye entirely and sat up. 

Footsteps soon accompanied the melody; they were coming down the hallway, and he looked at the door as they drew closer. It was unsettling as he could not decipher whether the voice was genuine or just a figment of his imagination. He would soon find out as the footsteps ended at the door. The melody ended as well. He gazed on in anticipation as the electronic lock beeped and the door opened.

“I thought you would have forgotten that song.” The same male voice said clear as day. A man walked into the room, and he sat stock-still. For the first time, while in this horrible place, he hoped he was hallucinating, a fabled dream would have been much more preferable than the horrors of reality. But no, he was not dreaming, by the expression of the entering orderly’s face, he could see the man as well. Said man who continued to walk closer to the glass, his dark brown hair combed back to present a face that was similar but different to his own. It held more age, but still had the attraction of youth and the bright eyes were a stark contrast to his dark attire and black gloves. The irises were a tantalizing green that held the hue of the ocean under a setting sun. “I’m glad you remembered it after all this time, and hopefully…” The man grinned.

“You will remember me too, Stef.” 

The faintest parts of his memory arose that very moment as it weaved together to create a story's structure. Though it had many holes, he was still able to piece together its most impactful parts.

“Oh, Bruno, I do. How could I ever forget you?” He smiled back at the man. “It’s such a pain, though, out of all the things I remember, I have to remember a deadman.” The man’s grin left him, and the bright lights of his eyes turned to ice.

“Is that how you choose to greet me? Whatever happened to your manners, did you lose them along with your eye? You look absolutely horrid.” His own smile vanished.

“I lack manners? I was going to ask, ‘If you had come to tell me I'm an uncle,’ but I decided not to because I’m polite.” His brother’s gaze hardened. “Oh, no little brats to call your own, isn’t that a shame.”

“Ah, Mr. Bruno if you need any assistance please—”

“Yes, I know, you informed me already.” His brother cut off the orderly. “You may leave us be.” 

“A-alright, sir.” The orderly left the room quickly, leaving them alone together.

“No need to be so rude. I actually don’t despise that one.”

“Stefano, please, we both know that doesn’t matter. You would happily murder him if you had to, whether you liked him or not.” His brother, correctly, remarked, grabbing the metal chair. “Like when you so happily murdered that Lewis girl, right?” His brother sat down, never breaking his cold stare.

“Oh, but it was so much more than murder. I used what she had so graciously given me to create a grand masterpiece. It was art, she was art.”

“You say that with no remorse.”

“Why would I be remorseful for creating such a magnificent work of art? That is as if I asked you if you regretted any pieces you had ever composed. It’s rather rude. Speaking of your music, how did that go for you? You must have had a great time, being a ‘famous’ composer before you decided to end it all abruptly and leave the limelight. Did you forget to tell me that you would disappear from the face of the earth as well? I thought you were dead.”

“I thought the same of you. You know, I felt some sort of happiness finding out you were still alive, but you do not know how quickly that sweet euphoria turned bitter, when I found out what you had become. The disappointment was overwhelming.”

“I guess we’re both not satisfied by each other’s accomplishments. If you are so disappointed in me, why visit? I’m certain there are plenty of other things you could be spending your precious time with.” His brother took in a deep breath and seemed to try and calm himself.

“Stef, I’m not disappointed in you, but what you are. Out of all the horrible things you could have been, why a serial killer? I came here to at least find some answers.”

“Answers to what?” 

“To how you have been.” He laughed, it felt good to chuckle and let himself smile although his brother looked sullen.

“You want to know how I’ve been? Have you seen this place? Just by looking around, you know how I have been being trapped in here. You even said it yourself, “I look horrid.” And you would be correct.”

“And your life in Krimson City is so much more desirable.? How could that have been? Life becomes so tiresome when you have to constantly keep secrets.”

“Then you don’t know how to live life then. Sadly, yes, I was unable to take credit for my hard work. However, I made certain my art was a secret to no one.”

“Look where that kind of lifestyle got you, your ambition corrupted your common sense. This world is not made for the esoteric artist.”

“True, but I was given the opportunity to live in a world where my art was accepted.” His brother gave a heavy sigh.

“I’m aware. In a town named Union, yes? But how does that matter now? By your own words, Union is no longer in existence. You constantly keeping it in the present does nothing but hurt you.”

“If it hurts me, I don’t feel it.” 

“I guess so. But I’m certain it hurt when the reviews for your art came in. I know your memory is screwed, but can you remember how much the people loathed your art?” He stopped himself from spitting back an insult and looked away from his brother’s gaze.

“Yes, there were many philistines and ignorant critics, who could not see the beauty in what I had created, but that did not stop me, did it? The euphoria that comes with the art of creation is one that triumphs any otherworldly pleasure. You could not understand the gratification I felt as I created my pieces.” He smiled as the lovely memories flashed through his mind. “I never knew how malleable and beautiful the human body is, until I took it apart with my own hands and took in the essence of blood and flesh. It seeped into my skin, the remarkable smooth texture of flesh between my fingers, and how I could taste every bit of it on my tongue. What was created in the aftermath was always true beauty. I had reached my life-long goal of becoming an artist, and I was beautiful.” His brother did not say anything, only continued to look on with a cold glare though it was slowly melting. 

“You did accomplish your goal, didn’t you?” his brother breathed. “You’re an artist, Stefano Valentini... Do you think Father would be proud of you?” His smile instantly faded, and he turned back to his brother. His lovely memories were replaced with the distorted remnants of past visions, visions he had not seen in years.

“Yes… he would be proud of what I have done, of what I have become.” He hated the uncertainty in his own voice, his brother heard it as well.

“Of course, he would. If he were here, he would be showering you with more praise than he has ever had, right? Because if Father saw you as you are now, he would only see the artist you are. Oh, then you can only imagine Mother’s enthusiasm when she lays eyes upon you.”

“There’s no need to speak like that. With all I have achieved, they wouldn't matter to her; she would be proud of me.” His brother laughed this time, not as heavy as his own, but a soft laugh that curled his lips into a gentle smirk.

“Please, I know that was hard for you to say. It is quite pitiful. I leave for a few years, only to come back and find everyone is either six feet under or lost their minds. You fall in the latter sadly.” his smirk was short-lived. “I knew coming to see you would be painful, but it’s agony...” His brother’s voice went low to barely a whisper, but he could still hear every word. “You don’t know how much it hurts me to see you like this. I didn’t realize you were gone this far... That bastard Sebastian was right.”

“What did you say?” He instantly turned to look his brother in his eyes. His brother looked away. “What name did you just say, Bruno?!” He shouted, sitting up suddenly, not paying attention to how the quick motion revealed his scars. His brother glanced back at him for a moment.

“Stefano, there’s no need for screaming. I heard you just fine.”

“And I heard you just fine as well. You know who Sebastian Castellanos is, don’t you? How?!” His brother continued to stay silent. “Tell me now!” 

“You won’t like what I have to say.”

“You think I would care? I have been lied to for so long that the truth is the only thing that can give me relief. Tell me how you know him. He is,” he felt the anger in his voice seep away. “… what keeps me looking forward to another day, in this Hell. Please, Bruno.” His brother looked him in the eyes, a stoic glare meeting his pleading gaze.

“I always hated when you looked at me like that…” his brother’s eyes momentarily glanced to the side at the security camera, he sighed slowly looking back. “ _Yes, I do indeed know him._ ” It had been a while since he was spoken to in his native language. It was refreshing and had him deeply intrigued in his brother’s word as he spoke in a quiet tone. “ _I know he comes here to visit you and why he does so. You're certain you want me to say more?_ ”

“ _Yes, I am. I_ _want answers, just as you did from me._ ”

“ _… He’s not some simple ‘guy’ who has come to visit you and ask you questions all day. I don’t know if he told you his profession._ ”

“ _He wouldn’t answer me when I asked._ ”

“ _Do you have a fleeting idea of why that may be?_ ”

“ _Don’t play games with me. Tell me what you know._ ”

“ _Ah, watch your tone. You were the one begging for an answer. I do not have to tell you anything, but I am. Be grateful. Now use that spiteful tongue of yours to answer me._ ” He felt his anger returning.

“ _I don’t know, maybe because he wants to keep something from me._ ” 

“ _See, that wasn’t too hard. Whatever could he be keeping from you?_ ”

“ _That’s what you’re supposed to tell me. He could be hiding anything, I want to believe he knows me, but… I hate that I am beginning to doubt my own beliefs. I know I’m right, but at times it feels like the world is telling me that I’m wrong._ ”

“ _You are trying so hard to stay in denial_. _Your delusions are so blinding that they are becoming more and more difficult to view. That is why you want Sebastian. He is the only delusion left that you could stand to look at._ ”

“That isn’t true.” 

“Not true? Why would he even come to a place like this?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

_"Stef, the man is a private detective._ ” His heart skipped a beat. “ _The purpose of his job is to investigate and solve crimes on a more personal level. It even involves interviewing the perpetrators of the crime itself if it is needed._ ”His brother tried to hide a smile. “ _You appear shocked, why else would you believe he would come to see you? To have a lovely chat and get to know one another._ ”

“No… He said he came to help me; he wants me to remember.”

“So, the only reason he wants you to remember certain events, is to “help” you to get better. You believed him?”

“I want to. I thought we…” he slumped back down onto his bed. “We knew—”

“Are you going to say, you ‘know each other'? Ha!” his brother chuckled no longer able to control his grin. “Are you that desperate for someone to care about you, that you’re willing to believe this stranger knows you personally, you of all people? You’re either stupid or insane.”

“He’s not a stranger.” The strength in his voice returned. “We know each other from our time in Union. He knows who I am, and I know who he is.”

“Insane it is then. You lose yourself to the lies within your own mind.”

“I’m not the one lying. They all are!”

“I’ve already heard plenty of your nonsensical ramblings to know who speaks the truth. Unfortunately, it is not you.”

“He does know me. He knows me more than you ever will!”

“Enough of this, Stefano.” His brother’s smile quickly turned into a scowl. “He doesn’t know you, and you don’t know him. You are sick!”

“No, I know the truth!”

“You have psychosis, amnesia, delusions, and a high level of psychopathy to concoct the festering disease eating you from the inside out. Why can’t you see what is becoming of you?! You are destroying yourself!”

“That doesn’t matter! I am not dying, my heart still beats. I'm not a Neanderthal, I have control.”

“You are not in control of anything. Look around you, Stefano. You got caught, and now you are stuck rotting in this damn hell until you are nothing but skin and bones. You lost any semblance of control or pride once they locked you in here. You no longer have control. You are no longer an artist.”

“I am an artist! No one can ever take that away from me. I worked my entire life to become one, and I will be an artist until the day I die. You say such rueful things because you are envious of my stature. Where I am wholeheartedly determined to my craft, you gave up halfway and became a worthless nobody. That is what you are, Bruno! You are a nobody, you will die a nobody while I will be remembered as the greatest photographer, Stefano Valentini!” 

His uplifted posture instantly crumbled at the sudden crack of a fist smashing into glass, creating an intrusive vibration that caused him to curl in on himself. He looked on shocked as his brother stood, curled fist still in the same place it had struck the glass, though there was no ire in his eyes which had been present moments before. Hopelessness was what filled the sea-green depths.

“How quickly the soul turns dark in the absence of light.” His brother’s tone was soft as he spoke. “Stefano, I have realized that seeing you like this, corrupted and vile… I wish you had remained dead to me.” 

He chose not to respond. The tense silence was broken by the sound of the metal door opening.

“I apologize for the interruption, but Mr. Bruno, your visitation time is up.” The orderly in the doorway said. His brother turned to face the orderly; by the orderly’s scared reaction, his brother’s expression must have been unkind.

“I was told I had longer, you cannot just decide to end the visitation early.”

“W-Well, Mr. Bruno, we um, we have policies put in place if we must end a visitation early.”

“What would those policies be?”

“You’re not allowed to piss off the patients, sir.” The guard from behind the orderly spoke up. 

“What my colleague is saying is that one of our policies is that if a patient is in clear distress during a visitation, we are required to end it.” His brother groaned.

“A warning would have been preferable.”

“Can’t always get what you want, sir.” The guard retorted. “You coming willingly or not?”

“Please excuse him, allow us to escort you out.” His brother scoffed and looked back at him. He did not say a word, only scrutinized him with his ocean green eyes before turning his back to him.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit, Mr. Bruno. St. Eden Mental Asylum wants to thank you –” 

“Don’t thank me.” His brother stopped in front of the orderly, who looked drastically smaller compared to his tall form. “You do not mean it. None of you mean to do any good.” His brother glared at the guard. “You will wish I would do good, soon enough.” His brother shouldered past them with the guard close behind him. The orderly looked back at him for a second. He only offered a kind smile before closing the door, leaving him alone in silence. He did not speak for the rest of the day.

Φ

He was about to create his most brilliant masterpiece.

It had taken him much time and effort to come up with and create the perfect setting and lighting, string together the ideal demise for such a persistent adversary, and the final pose he shall make in death. It was going to be glorious. The anticipation to wait for his soon to be creation to arrive rose with every beat of his heart. As he waited, he gazed upon the myriad of photographs hung on the wall in front of him; they depicted his strengths in the realm of artistic expression, and it was a great refresher before he would create again. He had spent a grand amount of his precious time planning out this creation, even though it was sudden with the change in his original plan.

It did not take him long to decide to betray the Father. Their ideals were not aligned, and their end goals contrasted with each other. The moment he decided to keep the CORE for himself, he could feel the eyes of the Father loom over him, judging him. The Father himself had not come for him, most likely due to the fact he had the CORE and would have most likely killed him on the spot if he had confronted him in person. But he knew the Father himself was too cowardly to make such a move. Phycological manipulation and persuasive trickery were the Father's means of overpowering a foe; he was grateful to say that with the power of the CORE, the Father’s mind games to him were just that, games. He was bathing in the CORE's abundant energy every moment, and his power was evolving into a force that would have put the Father’s abilities to shame. He needed to be patient until that time came. In the meantime, he needed to work on his art.

The doors behind him creaked as they were opened, footsteps followed. 

“No more running. No more games.” His soon to be masterpiece spoke with his rich voice, it enkindling his artistic drive. He could not wait any longer to hear him scream.

“Agreed.” He replied, turning his head to the side. Turning around to face his opponent, he smirked. “You’re beginning to bore me.” Music filled the photographer’s domain, violins strung up a crescendo, and the cellos and bases brought together the thrumming harmony to create the uplifting serenade. Gripping his photographer’s camera and artists dagger, he gestured the weapon out in front of him. “Your death will be art.” The air around him sparked with azure flames as he teleported deeper within the walls of his art. “It’s time to put a signature on it.”

The battle between artist and medium began. The first rush of adrenaline hit him when he was finally able to slash his blade into the man’s subtle flesh, the smell of fresh blood and the groan of agony was all too intoxicating. He wanted more. Teleporting in a myriad of patterns, he was able to home in on his victim and perform the ritual of every great artist, putting together the pieces of his masterpiece. 

His favorite attack method was, capturing his foe in time and getting up close and personal with him. That was when the rush within him was at its peak; he could see every expression of pain the man made, and the look of burning fire in his eyes sent shivers down his spine every time. He stabbed, slashed, even throwing his dagger across the room to hit his victim to make the tantalizing scene of a struggling man fighting tooth and nail to save his life. It was glorious.

Until the first bullet stung his shoulder. It had caught him off guard, coming out of his teleportation only to be met with a bullet that buried itself into his flesh. It did not matter; he had had previous works of art try to fight him before; all of them became his art at the end of their struggles. However, this man fought back with more rigor than any of his previous creations, and it became irksome after the first few bullets, but seething anger began to overwhelm his pleasure and extinguish his rush. His rage boiled over after a sudden shotgun blast caught him in the gut. It was the first in a long time he found himself forced to his knees before an opponent. The pain that followed was excruciating as his aperture burned with a furious fire and flicked a blue light as if crying out in pain. He instinctively put a hand over his eye, he could feel it pulse underneath his touch. 

“I’ve had enough of this.” He threw away the original image of what he had wanted his masterpiece to look like, he did not care about intricacies anymore. “Prepare to die!” He erupted into blue flames as the room around them was torn away to make way for the Aperture, his humungous tentacles already taking over the surroundings. No, he did not care about details, an indistinguishable pile of gore and entrails would be a much more favorable end for the Philistine. “There’ll be nothing left of you when I’m done.” 

He unleashed everything he could against the Neanderthal. The Aperture, attacking first though his strikes, were clumsy and had the accuracy of a blind archer. He was destroying more artworks than wounding the foe. He took matters into his own hands shortly after. His teleportation was erratic, and the strikes with his blade frantic as his desperation rose. The explosive bombs he scattered over the battlefield aided in pushing the neophyte into a corner for him to charge and drive his dagger into as many times as possible. But no matter how many times he struck the man, he always found a way to get back up and fire bullet after bullet at the artist. Many hitting him, the crossbow bolts hurdled at him caused more harm when he was to slow to evade a strike, though the smoke bolts were more annoying than anything. Providing cover for his adversary to strike him from within the grey mist. A normal man would have been dead by now with his injuries, yet his body still fought with what dying strength it had; his animalistic instinct to survive kept adrenaline pumping through his veins and the shock needed to handle the growing pain from his grievous wounds. It all was beginning to take its toll on him. 

He was losing. He knew it, the Aperture knew it, on another plane of existence, the Guardians and his Obscura knew it as well. He had to live. He could not die here, not like this, and not by the bastard savage that dared to destroy his works and spit in the face of high artistry. As he was shot with another piercing bullet, he wondered if the CORE could feel his pain, his fear. He momentarily reached out to her, and a faint picture of her glanced across his aperture; she was where he left her, the base-level theatre. She had wandered out of the lobby and into the stage room, standing on the steps of the aisle. She stared at the stage with her bright blue eyes full of unease as she waited for his return. So, she could feel his fear. When the image cleared away, he was met with a shotgun blast to the chest, a blast that made his entire body go numb. It was pointless to try and stay up after the attack, as his exhausted and battered body gave out and collapsed to the floor. 

He was dying. He could feel it now, in his bones, and what remained of his slowly beating heart. He no longer had the power or strength to command the Aperture already knowing his loss, gave a fading rumble as he closed his fading blue lens and sunk into the abyss of nothingness. All his creations were connected to him; they existed through him; as he died so did, they. The Guardians began to tear apart at the seams, cackling as their heads fell from their perch, wicked smiles still on their faces. His Obscura held on the longest, her cries and wails being the most painful as she thrashed her rapidly decaying body before she gave one final cry and collapsed in a heap of dead flesh and wires. She would have taken a picture of herself if she could have. The only being he felt tied to was the CORE, even though he felt the grasp he had of her waning, he could not see her anymore, only the bloody red tint that covered his vision. A disgusting pit formed at the bottom of his stomach, the thought of the wretched Philistine having control over her, made him sick. He had planned so much to do with her. 

“I had so much left to create. You’ve destroyed my legacy." He groaned at the saddening thought. Even more saddening was the look of disdain in the eyes of his supposed to be masterpiece as he stood over his bloody form. He did not care that his scars were showing. "Look at me. You’ve made me into a masterpiece.” He reflexively went for his camera, it was missing. “Must record it. If only I had my camera. Where did it go?” He could only stare up at the ceiling as he felt the last remnants of his soul leave his body. The footsteps of his creator walked away to leave him to rot. He would have laid there for dead if it were not for the gleam in the periphery of his red-tinted vision. He smiled. “Still time…” he used the last of his strength to grab his camera and aim at the back of his masterpiece. “…for one last photo!” Looking through the viewfinder, he went to take his final photograph; to his shock instead of seeing the man’s back, he was staring down the barrel of a gun. It fired. The surprise still caught on his face as the bullet went through his remaining eye and into his skull.

The world went dark as his soul was eviscerated.

It was pitch black, horrendously so; cold which could freeze spirits and a dampness which clung to the very air itself. He could not breathe, he could not see, nor hear or feel. It was an abyss of darkness that consumed every part of him. It was utterly awful. It would drive him mad certainly. It, in all its entirety, was a sin against reality. 

It only lasted for a moment. The world was dark, until it suddenly sparked to life in a blinding light. He could finally breathe again. He felt his body once more, there was no pain, no aching, nor fear. He was alive. He was just dead a moment before, now he could feel the pulse of his heart beating steadily in his chest. Confusion set in, and before questions could be formed, the bright light disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He was more stunned than confused when his vision finally cleared. He was standing in front of a wall of his photographs, he gazed upon the myriad of photographs hung on the wall in front of him; they depicted his strengths in the realm of artistic expression; it would be a great refresher before he would create again.

“ _Che cosa_?” he gasped baffled. He was standing in the place where he died. Or did he die? Had he unintentionally used the CORE’s power and created a scenario in his head? That made little sense. If he had created that mental reality, why would he make himself die? The room got a little warmer, and the brief spark of amber flames poisoned his vision. The scent of smoldering embers filled the air as the photographs in front of him became scorched by an invisible hand, leaving words in its wake. 

_**Are you prepared for Hell, sinner?** _

He nearly spat on the writings but relented from doing such a thing to his own works even if they were already stained by the Father’s mind. He reached out to the CORE, but the string that held their connection was nonexistent. Or rather had been cut. He regretted not ending the Father first.

The doors behind him creaked as they were opened, footsteps followed. 

“No more running. No more games.” He scoffed. Fine, if that is how the Father wanted to play, then so be it. He would slaughter the Philistine, then go and butcher the Father.

“Agreed.” He turned with a look of fury burning in his eyes. “You’re beginning to bore me.” The man looked exactly the same as before, though his eyes seemed vapid. He would kill him this time. Pulling out his dagger and camera, he went to work. He immediately threw the dagger at the man who ducked in response, but instead of running away to find his groundings, which he had done after every one of his attacks, his opponent charged him, gun drawn. With a thought, he teleported to the other side of the room, having retrieved his dagger, and taking out his camera.

“Smile for the camera.” He took the shot just as the opponent had turned to face him, freezing him in a block of time. The blue haze of his trap had no effect on himself as he came before his opponent. The strike of his dagger pierced the heart, and he twisted it for good measure. It all was just as exhilarating as the previous times, though something was off. The wound and its smell of blood was still the same, even the direction in which the blood splattered was similar. No, it was his foe. Every time he had struck the man, he had given out a cry or groan of pain and physically recoiled. This time, his opponent gave no reaction to his stab wound, he did not even flinch as his very own blood splashed across his face. That was not the only difference. Looking deep into the intrusive brown eyes, a cold bottomless pit had taken place where a roaring fire should have been. The look gave him chills, but not any that proffered pleasure. It was unsettling. He proceeded, nonetheless. 

“Have you become that accustomed to my dagger?” he snickered. “Or do you just take pleasure in it?” His taunt was met with only silence. He did not take any joy in this, if he wanted to have a dull experience creating his art, he would have used clay or marble. Scoffing, he went to pull out his dagger and prepare another, more fatal, strike. Before he could, he was stopped by a hand that gripped the wrist holding the dagger. His first instinct was to teleport, but he also brought the stoic-faced mongrel with him, who instantly grabbed his other wrist.

He immediately struggled to getaway. The mongrel had not wielded this strength before. The iron grip only got tighter, it was a miracle he was able to wrench out his dagger out of the man's chest, but it resulted in his other wrist being twisted around. A sharp pain shot up his arm at the unnatural angle, and he was forced to turn to try and ease the pain. Unable to regain his bearings, he was turned around with his arm twisted behind his back and his own dagger being forced towards his throat. A course of adrenaline rushed through him, and he instantly began to struggle in his attacker’s hold; he tried pushing back against the hand, pulling his hand towards his neck, which held the blood-stained dagger. It was a fruitless struggle as the blade only got closer. 

“Son of a bitch!” He cursed in frustration as he continued to thrash, to his credit, he was able to free his hand from behind his back and aid his other in trying to stop the blade. However, this allowed his attacker a free hand, though it did not come to try and shove the dagger into his neck. An unexpected stabbing pain pierced into his abdomen, he could not see it, but he could feel the warmth of his own blood begin to seep down his side. What he presumed to be a knife was then dragged across his stomach. He kept himself from screaming as the weapon’s serrated edge ripped through his guts with ease. It promptly repeated the exact same motion in reverse, intestines, and bodily fluids made themselves present to the outer world. He had held steady, but the abrupt shock of severe pain caused his arms to falter. 

The dagger sunk into his throat with a wet squelch. He screamed, rather he tried to, but all that came out was a strangled gargle as blood began to fill his slit windpipe. Panic overtook him, and he fiercely clawed at his neck protectively though it was already too late. The burning that sparked in his chest was akin to drowning, and he was, drowning in his own lifeblood, only able to hack and seize. He could see his blood this time, covering the blade of his dagger. In the reflection of silver steel, he could see his murderer's eyes. They were the eyes of the dead. Anemic and vacant every moment, as his soul left him through bleeding wounds. He was dying all over again, and he could not do anything to save himself. The lifeless eyes glaring into him were the last thing he saw before being sent back to the black abyss.

He gasped for air, as life returned to him. He was standing in front of the wall once more. 

_**Are you prepared for Hell, sinner?** _

The doors behind him creaked as they were opened, footsteps followed. 

“No more running. No more games.” He grit his teeth, and his hands curled into fists. He would not die again.

“Agreed, filthy bastard.” He had no need to turn around to know where his opponent was standing, he teleported directly behind him in a blaze of blue flames, dagger held high, posed to strike. It might have been a cowardice move, attacking his foe from behind, but in the game of life and death, the only move cowardly would be falling to your knees and begging for mercy. His blade stuck straight into the mongrel's back, missing the crossbow and holster. He was able to pull it out as the man suddenly turned around, gun in hand. The fired bullet lodged between his ribs before he was able to teleport away; he came out of his teleport hunched over in pain and dagger less. Blood was what he tasted on his tongue as it dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His body felt more susceptible to injury and damaged with much ease than before, he was weaker, and he was convinced his assailant knew it as well. He heard footsteps racing towards him and glanced up to see said assailant sprinting towards him, shotgun at the ready. 

“Damnit!” He franticly fumbled to bring out his camera and snapped a photo when the trigger was pulled. The man froze, but the shotgun shells continued on their trajectory. He instinctually teleported though not knowing where to as the bullets whizzed past where he stood moments before. With what came next, he would have preferred to have been shot by the shotgun. He only made one step before the most intense shock he had ever experienced shot through his entire body; sparks of electricity exploded around him. His opponent had previously laid one of these electricity traps, but never had it been so extensive that his skin visibly burned in areas, and his aperture cracked and shuttered. 

It was all excruciatingly painful even though it only lasted for a few seconds, it left him a smoking charred mess that collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap. It pained him too much to move, let alone be able to stand back up. Through his blurry vision, he made out the outline of the man standing above him. With a numb body, he could barely feel the bullet shoot through his skull before he was thrown into darkness.

“No more running. No more games.”

“Die, damn you!” he shrieked, rapidly spinning around, and creating a bomb that exploded between them. He was unharmed by the blast, but the menace was sent reeling backward into the wall. He did not want to give him a moment of reprieve, teleporting into the fading smoke he swung his dagger in great arks, striking flesh, and spraying blood into the air. As the smoke disappeared, so did his adversary, leaving him standing before the damaged wall. A moment of confusion was what he was granted before being rammed from behind. He was just able to turn himself around as his back was slammed into the blood-stained wall. He found himself again in a compromising position with a forearm crushing his windpipe and a gun aimed at his head, which he tried to take from the leveraging hand, to no avail. His leather gloves could be a nuisance at times. Through there was applied pressure on his throat, he was able to choke out:

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” The response to his inquiry was a bullet to the chest, followed by a second shot to the head. Darkness.

_**Are you prepared for Hell, sinner?** _

No. No, he truly was not. He was unprepared for the cycle of death and rebirth that was as beautiful as it was wicked. Maybe in the past, he would have found the concept of being able to die a hundred deaths, and at the end of it all still stand breathing, desirable. However, after experiencing the true nature of death afflicted upon himself in so many gruesome ways, the very thought of waking up alive after having his throat slit would be utter hell, and it was. The never-ending loop of him engaging battle with his assailant only to be slain like an animal to wake up and repeat the same motions, was taxing. All the intense strain wore him down to the bone, though he still had enough awareness to realize that after each slaughter, he would awaken closer and closer to the time of his first death. He did not know what would happen when he reached that point, and it terrified him to find out. Naturally, he tried with all his might to end the madness. 

He used every tactic he could think of to overcome his murderer; however, after dying for the twenty-sixth time, he realized the man had left his humanity behind for an unholily inhuman drive. Every move his adversary made was made with an unyielding determination to unmake him; the incomprehensible impulse resulted in cruelly calculated battle tactics and immoral strategies to all combine and break him down physically and mentally. While each and every attack sent his way tore him down bit by bit, the man seemed impassive to all assaults, no matter how great or pitiful. The man could be struck, but he did not cry, he could be engulfed in the fire of explosions and still stand unscathed, he could bleed like every other man, but he would not fall. There was no use in trying to oppose the unstoppable being, those who opposed the will of God only fell after all. 

Awakening for the thirty-seventh time, he decided to run. Dodging past death incarnate, he made his way to the entrance door and threw them open. Death smiled back at him with a loaded gun and a finger on the trigger. Running became futile, he could not leave beyond the bounds of the gallery without the monster being behind every open door, and he would always find a way to catch up to him. He would tire, the man could not. He decided to hide after his fifty-third death. There were very few places to hide and the places where he could, the monster always found him, his malice always found him. The monster used his gun less often, utilizing his combat knife and bare hands; it had not been long since he was strangled with his own scarf. The experience taught him he preferred having his throat slit, it ended the suffering quicker. He removed his neckpiece after that, not that it stopped the monster’s brutality and the time between kills shortening. He could barely stay alive for more than a minute before death found him once more, being rebirthed already wounded did not do him any justice. He knew his absolute death was getting nearer after every killing, that was what planted a pure gut-wrenching fear in his soul.

After his seventieth murder, he did not try to fight, he did not try to run, he did not try to hide. He collapsed to his knees, defeated, and glared up into cold eyes.

“No…” his voice hoarse and low, quivered. “No more. You win.” No glare of mercy flashed through the monster’s dead eyes. A bullet to the head. 

He found himself already kneeling.

“I’ve told you you’ve won. You don’t have to kill anymore.” A crossbow bolt through the chest.

“Are you doing this to make yourself feel stronger, you—” An axe through the crown of his head.

“No more! Stop, I beg of you!” his neck was snapped.

He threw himself forward, clinging to the monster’s belt. He did not reach for any weapons as he continued looking upwards, pleading.

“Please stop, I-I’ll do whatever you want me to. Just please end this.” A knife across his throat.

He fell onto his back, the man standing above him, a pistol his weapon of choice. It was nearing the end; he could feel the final death lingering over him. After this death, he would only have one last chance at life before… nothingness.

“I’m sorry, please, mercy, I beg of you.” A bullet through his aperture.

“Please—” a final bullet through the eye.

Death came in the flash of a gun blast. As he expected, he could not move a single muscle on his own accord, his breath was taken from him, and it was unrelentingly cold…but it was not a black abyss.

The vibrant blue haze that enveloped his world made everything around him freeze, he could see the blood from his gunshot wound gush in a crimson fountain which complemented its cerulean background; it was frozen in time, like a photograph. He could feel the bullet slowly make his way through his skull and into his brain, he could feel all the pain that came with it. Through the splitting ache in his head, the man standing above him crouched down to his level, their eyes met. The man’s eyes were cold, but not lifeless. There was indeed a life within the rich depths, but it was a flame that should not have belonged to the man. A hand that had been used numerous times to cause him harm, gently caressed his scarred cheek, he could feel its delicate touch past the pain. Staring into his bleeding eyes, the man made a singular facial expression. A mocking smirk that strengthen the fire smoldering in his eyes.

_**“Are you prepared for Hell, Stefano?”** _

**“Stefano, are you bleeding?”**

_“Stefano, why won’t you get up?”_

“Stefano?”

“Stefano, wake up, you’re bleeding!”

He opened his eye as he reawakened. Breath and feeling were restored to him, though he was still chillingly cold. He first noticed two things as he came to lying in his cell room bed. First, being the figure standing over him that made him flinch backward startled, even though it seemed to try and calm him, and second, the annoying itch of something in his eye in which blinking did nothing to help. Reflexively he tried to scratch the eye but was reminded that his limbs were restrained. 

“Please, don’t pull on the restraints, Mr. Valentini. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” His dreary vision cleared, and he was able to recognize the familiar face of the orderly. “How are you feeling? Do you have any head pain?” in his drowsy state, it took him longer to reply.

“Why are you asking?”

“Please just answer the question. Do you have any head pain?” A bullet to the head.

“… No. I don’t believe so.” This did not seem to reassure the orderly. “What’s wrong?” The orderly looked reluctant to answer.

“Well… We came in for your morning routine, and your eye was—”

“Don’t answer him.” The voice of the guard came from out of his sight. “Move, David, were getting ready to transfer him to the treatment center.” 

“No!” rid of any drowsiness, he tried to sit up, energized with adrenaline.

“Please calm down, Mr. Valentini. We’re trying to help you.” The orderly attempted to calm him again, putting a hand on his shoulder to coax him back down.

“Liar!” he snapped, the orderly recoiled. “You’re just going to hurt me in the end. You always do, why lie?” a pained expression crossed the orderly’s face.

“I don’t want to.”

“David, I said move!” the orderly was pulled out of his field of vision and replaced with the guard who pushed him harshly back onto the bed. “Fight me, Valentini, I dare you, see what fucking happens. You'll be put into treatment for another reason.” He could have fought back, with all the adrenaline pumping through him it would have been easy to put up a struggle. He did not fight, or run, or hide. It would all be pointless in the end. He laid back down of his own volition and waited to be transferred to the Treatment center.

_**Are you prepared for Hell, Stefano?** _

Φ

"You gave the orderlies quite the scare this morning Mr. Valentini. The last time we found blood on you while you were in your room was when you cut yourself with your nails… How is your eye?”

“… It’s wonderful.”

“Great to hear. Dr. Morris has worked with us for a long time, he is an excellent physician despite his flaws, which there are many of. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“… I couldn’t agree more.”

“Without him, many of our patients would be uncared for. Without a numerous of Eden’s staff members, many of our patients would be dead. Including you.”

“… Oh, really?”

“Yes, indeed."

"... Why help?"

"Well, everyone here has their reasons for helping the sick, but mine can be seen as asinine. From my perspective… you are wrong, Mr. Valentini. Wrong in that you were born in such a way that any moral values a right human being would have, you lack. Which makes you wrong. Your wrongness is what urges you to be such a despicable work of nature, I have rarely seen it so concentrated in a single being before, it is heinous. But, I am not certain I can blame you for that. You did not ask to be born wrong, so I should not fault you for it. Many others would, you saw during the trial how many people wanted you dead; strangers, prosecutors, the victims' families, but not me. No, I do not want to kill you; I should fix you, make all your wrongs, right. So, by Eden’s staff members and I taking the initiative to fix you, we save you from a fate worse than death at the hands of a mob blinded by hate and anger… A ‘thank you’ would be an appropriate response.”

“… Thank you.”

“… you seem off today.”

“…Do I?”

“Yes, you’re not drawing. You appear to be almost finished as well. It’s not like you to leave a drawing unfinished like this… What did you dream about last night?”

“… Something lovely, can you believe that?”

“You’re going to be difficult today, aren’t you?... Did you know nobody really knows the purpose of dreams? Scientists and doctors have spent decades trying to figure out why humans dream when they sleep, all had no precise answer. However, they have found out what influences a person’s dream: food, health, stress, emotions. All can have an effect on what you dream about at night. If I know what you dream about at night, I can better assess your current condition. So please, tell me about your dream last night. 

“…”

“You’ll need to speak up.”

“...Do you believe in God?”

"Excuse me?”

“... God… Do you believe there is a God?”

“Hm… Yes. I would not call myself a Christian, but I believe there is a higher power that gives justice and misery to humanity. I normally don’t think about religion, I have other pressing matters to keep myself busy. Do you believe in God, Mr. Valentini?”

“…. It doesn’t matter if I believe in him or not, if he is truly real. I just pray that God does not exist.”

“Why is that?”

“… Because if God is real... I’m going to Hell.”

“Is that what you dreamed about last night, hell? Was it a cold and dark place for you?”

“…hm…”

“What is so funny?”

“… The image of Hell you have in your head. It’s laughable. I cannot describe how wrong _you_ are, doctor. You cannot fathom what Hell truly is unless you have been there. You’d wish there were no God if you have been to Hell.”

“Mr. Valentini… Only sinners go to hell. Do you believe you have sinned?”

“… No.”

“Then why would you go to hell? Have you repented?”

“... No, my art is something I'll never repent… I would go to Hell because God is cruel. For that was my dream last night. God’s cruelty.”

“I see… Did you see God himself?”

“... I couldn’t tell. Some pastors are so delusional that they believe themselves to be God, and if he is manipulative enough, other people will believe him too. So, the image of God himself is distorted, but you can see where he has left his omen… When is Sebastian coming back?”

“Oh, Mr. Castellanos? Very soon, next week, to be specific.”

“... Doctor, may I ask of you a small favor?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“...May I have just one day where I’m not required to wear restraints while within my cell?”

“You're asking for a cheat day?”

“... It doesn’t need to be for the whole day, even if it is simply for an hour or two, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Let’s see, you did pass all of your blood tests… Alright, I’ll allow it for an hour, no more no less.”

“... Thank you so much doctor, I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I better not.”

“... I said you won’t, now if you’d excuse me, I have a piece of art to complete.”

“Wait, before you start your drawing, could you please tell me when you would like this ‘cheat’ hour.”

“Next week.”

Φ

He could not wait any longer. The anticipation to wait for his visitor to arrive rose with every beat of his heart. Waiting had always been a thorn in his side, but today it served in increasing his excitement. To ease his stress, he entertained himself by scratching the metal surface of his desk with his nails. An act he had been unable to do for a while, the action gave him the satisfaction of creation though it did give him a rush that kept him on edge. What would genuinely give him satisfaction would be seeing his masterpiece, the one who killed him, the one that sent him to Hell. He could not wait to see him once more. He wanted to see him more than anything, no, not want; the feeling of obsession was more influential than a simple desire. It was an absolute need. The sound of the hallway door opening spiked his inner thrills, and he found himself already smiling before the door to his room opened. 

“You already know the routine, Mr. Castellanos. Oh, and please do be mindful of the time.” 

“I will, don’t worry, I won’t take long.” There he was. Sebastian Castellanos, with the same precious burning eyes, though he dawned a tan leather coat for this visit and in hand, was held a manila folder filled with unknown papers. “Not long at all.”

“Alright, then. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Castellanos. Please enjoy your visit.” The door closed, and they were alone together. Again.

“Finally, out of that straight jacket, are you?” the man commented, pulling up the metal chair, he noticed it was much closer to the glass than before.

“Only for the hour sadly, then I’ll be put right back into the damn thing. I requested that I would be free of it for today only.”

“Why’s that?” he turned to adequately address his guest; his smile had never faltered even when his eyes connected with the passionate fire.

“I simply wanted to make myself comfortable for today’s visit.” His eyes were drawn back to the folder, he gestured to it. “What do you have there?”

“Your memories.” The man opened the folder and began searching through the papers. “Well, some of them, most of this is just public information that comes up, when you search the terms “Krimson Photographer” or “Stefano Valentini,” but with the help of St. Eden, I was able to get a hold of more confidential information. Not that me knowing your blood type is A-, is that helpful or important to your memories, unless I just reminded you of your blood type.” 

“No, I’m already aware of that information.” He looked closer at the files and noticed a few pictures within the unorganized mix of papers. “Is that all of your sources?”

“That would be all of them.”

“Interesting. I didn’t know online resources, or the asylum would have a picture of my sketches in my planning journal. The investigators never found it.” That stopped the man’s searching, and he glanced up at him. “Not that they found much. Not even the best detectives in Krimson City could find one single head of—”

“Alright, I get it. I may have done some… deeper digging into the web. I don’t know how they got the pictures, but they did, and that’s all that matters.” He assumed the man picked up on the falter to his smile as the man groaned. “Look, I don’t have the time to explain everything to you right now. Your doctor told me we had a limited visitation today, he told me there was something ‘off’ about you today.” His doctor would say something like that. “Should I be worried?”

“Oh, no. The doctor has the tendency to overlook reality in favor of his own flawed perspective. He mistook my excitement as agitation.” The man gave him one last look before returning to the papers.

“If you say so.” The man pulled a small stack of photos. “So, for today, I want to start off by showing you some pictures. When I show you a photo, tell me whether you remember it or not, and if you do tell me what you know about it. This is just to help me assess where you are with your memory. Now that isn’t too difficult, is it?” 

“Not at all.”

“Great, let’s begin.” The man showed him the first picture. “You remember this one?” The picture was of a building; its dark marron walls worked well with the black roof and tiling, which contrasted against the bright gold of the statue in front of it, the statue of a double helix. He unconsciously began tapping his finger on his leg as the gears in his head began turning.

“Yes, I remember. That was the art gallery I worked with while in Krimson City, Luna Rosa Gallery. The people there were so welcoming, but they were not too appreciative of my art, unfortunately.” The man gave a small smile

“Good, how about this one?” another picture was shown. The photograph was of a blonde-haired woman in a purple dress, she was posed in front of the setting sun standing at the center of a flower garden. The gold gem around her neck was brighter than her smile.

“I remember taking that photo. One of my first photographs for my gallery, you can tell.”

“What about the woman?”

“I remember her, as well. I’ve had better models.”

“What do you make of this one?” the picture shown triggered a physical response of surprise. It was a photograph of a town, taken from a faraway distance to see the smoke and flames consume the small houses and trees. Even though it was night, if one looked closely enough, they could see multiple corpses burning within the fires.

“Ah, yes, I certainly remember that one. Did you know I had to climb a tree to get that shot? It was difficult enough to scale but making sure not to be shot by enemy fire was another challenge, I am surprised I didn’t fall. Some people don’t know how much work goes into a single photograph.”

“You would risk your life for a photo?”

“I thought differently back then; the reward always outweighed the risk. I tried to drop the habit, but I could not help myself. That mentality is what got me in here.”

“Yes, that mentality is what put you here and nothing else.” He gave the man a sour look, though the man’s smile was still present.

“Let’s move onto the next photograph, please.”

“Fine, here, remember this one?” the next picture put him off. The photograph included another large building though it was not the main focus. He was the centerpiece, young and bright-eyed he was grinning ever so splendidly, but he was not alone. Standing next to him was a young man, his blonde hair and dark green eyes were a stark contrast to his own looks.

“Huh…”

“Do you not remember it?”

“No, I know where that is. That was the art school I was sent to in Florence, the man standing next to me was my roommate, but… I cannot remember his name. Must have not been that important of a person.” There was a pause before the man continued.

“What do you feel about this one?” the last picture put him off; it stunned him. It was a pair of light pink ballet shoes, they appeared worn out and old, and its ribbons had torn ends. They laid next to each other on a white marble floor.

“What are you trying to show me?”

“Whatever is in the picture. I can’t tell you anything, only show. Do you not remember anything?”

“Not exactly… They are familiar, but nothing comes to mind. I dressed my Obscura in ballet shoes, but they weren’t that shade of pink.”

“Your what?”

“Obscura. There was a drawing of her in my folders, you saw her, didn’t you? It’s difficult to miss her with her three legs and camera head.” The man looked off in thought for a moment before recognition flashed in his eyes.

“Oh, that monstrosity, where did you get the idea to make that?”

“Everything I create comes from within my own mind, but I don’t mind taking inspiration from a different source. Especially when it is a unique atmosphere to get me in the creative mood, a trait I am glad to say that the town of Union possessed.” 

“In Union? You’re not sure that town came from within your mind as well? With how your ‘Union’ artworks come out, I wouldn’t be surprised.” A bitter taste went in his mouth at the man’s commentary.

“Are you questioning my artistic choices?”

“No, your life choices.” The man must have seen his rising irritation and held up his hands defensively. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have questioned it. Let’s get back on track. How do you feel about—”

“No, let us delve deeper into my life choices.” the man stopped midway of showing him a picture.

“Don’t be difficult, Valentini. We’re doing so well.”

“No, we’re not.” He could feel the onset of his rising anger. “You don’t see the disconnection between us, but I do, it’s infuriating. I have been playing your game long enough, I am sick of it, and I am sick of the false pretense you have made for your identity. Why do you always have to lie to me?” the man groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Your doctor was right about you being off today.” the man’s tone of voice matched his demeanor. “Are you going off about me not knowing who you are again? Look I already told you—”

“It’s not just about that. It’s everything!” he lost his calm composure, raising his voice and gritting his teeth. “Since the very first day you have been here, you have lied to me about your life, your family, your job. With all the lies you have been telling me, it feels like I don’t know who you are.”

“Because you don’t. You don’t know me, never did. And I don’t know you.”

“But, I do know you!”

“No, you don’t.” the man’s defensive stance molded into offensive rather quickly, crossing his arms over his chest and his expression turning agitated. “That’s just it, you don’t know anything. When you tell people where you were the years that you were missing, do you expect anyone to believe that you were in ‘Union’? Do you not hear how insane you sound about how you could manipulate a world full of monsters and evils beyond imagination? In reality, you were most likely in a psychotic episode around people who didn’t care enough about you to help you. So, you just wondered around for two years doing God knows what until you were found by people who actually gave a shit about you; not that they knew you were a psychopathic serial killer.

“But you wouldn’t know that, would you? No, you’re too stuck in your ego to admit you are wrong, you don’t want to listen to anything but the lies you tell yourself. The only thing you seemed to admit is that your memory is fucked up; even then, you still try to put on the façade of being all in control. You can barely remember anything that doesn’t have to do with your “art,” and you still believe you know anything. You don’t even know yourself because if you did, you wouldn’t call yourself an artist.” He let the man’s words sink in. After he felt them cut in deep and fill his mind, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel angry anymore. No, he wasn’t angry anymore. He was happy, and he let it show on his face with a small smile.

“Oh, you damn Philistine.” He chuckled. “I know only what is necessary to live and what is necessary to me. For example, it is a necessity that I know how many people I have murdered in my lifetime. I have taken seventy-seven lives, and I know each and every one of them in sharp detail. Let me tell you about the woman in the photo you showed me. Her name was Alice May, a very pretty girl she was, I had decided to take her as one of my first models. I took the most beautiful photos of her, which helped start her modeling career. How did she repay me after all I had done for her? She decided not to give me any credit for my work, stealing my art to leave me behind in her glory. She told me that she didn’t need me anymore; she could find better photographers for a lower price. She said I was inferior to her natural beauty.” He paused to gauge the Philistine; his agitation had faded as he listened intently, though there was slight confusion mixing in his expression. Perfect.

“Well, a few years later, she started losing popularity with the modeling agencies after a little scandal she had involving public intoxication. Few people would hire her until everyone dismissed her together. And when no competent photographer would take photos of her, who did she turn to? She came back to me. She saw how successful I had become and the excellent work I did with other models, so she asked me if I could take photos of her, like old times. After all she had done to ruin me, she dared to show her face to me and demand I take photos of a worthless hag like her. Naturally, I declined, but that only started the nagging, and the pleading, and the crying. ‘Oh, please, oh please Stefano forgive me, I had no intent to hurt you, I just want to be pretty, oh please, just make me pretty Stefano.’ So, I did. Since she wanted to be pretty, so badly, she did not protest to coming to my studio to do the photoshoot, even though it was late at night, 11 o’clock, to be exact. She had put on her purple dress and gold necklace, and I took photos of her in front of a white background, to make herself feel beautiful. Everything went according to plan, until 12 o’clock came around.

“That’s when she decided she didn’t want to be pretty anymore. Or rather, she did not want me to make her pretty. The ungrateful bitch took all my hard work for granted and spat in my face with her vanity when she declined my help at the last moment. So, I ask her, ‘What is wrong, don’t you want to be pretty?’ Then she said, ‘Put the knife down.’ So, I did, to pick up my gun. I shot her just as my camera flash went off. I captured that moment perfectly in a photograph that I would keep in my studio; the expression she made as the bullet went through her chest was utterly satisfying. After I shot her and she fell to the ground, however, she had the audacity to keep breathing. I saw this as I sign that I was not yet done with my art, so I continued. It was the first time I ever tried exsanguination on a live artwork. I did not want to simply slit her wrists and watch her bleed out, no, I decided to… get innovative with my creation methods. 

“I strapped her up, upside down, and used my dagger to slice her open from navel to throat and studied her as her blood ran down her pale skin. She still had enough air in her lungs to scream as I began to remove the few feet of intestines that had begun to push through her wounds, it wasn’t the best decision on her part she only bruised her throat and drank her own blood, the poor thing. It was not until she began drowning in blood that she stopped screaming and tried crying to me. I couldn’t really understand what she was saying, blood in her throat and all, but I did hear one word, ‘whore.’ Even then, she could not stop herself from insulting me. She would never understand the beautiful piece of art she was becoming; she should have been satisfied, I fulfilled her wish, I made her pretty. After hearing that foul slander, I started the process of decapitation, it was—”

“Stop, stop enough!” the Philistine interrupted, a look of disgust on his face. “I don’t need to hear how you fucking butchered a woman.”

“Oh, you don’t need to, Mr. Castellanos?” He paused, thinking for a moment. “I don’t like how that sounds, _Mr._ Castellanos, no, I prefer Detective Castellanos much more.” The look of shock on the Philistine was tantalizing. “Allow me to rephrase myself, Detective Castellanos, wouldn’t you need to know every detail of my murders since you are investigating them? I am just trying to make your job easier for you.”

“Where did you get the idea that I was a detective?” the Philistine tried to regain what composure he lost, he could see straight through it.

“If you did not know, I had another visitor before this meeting. My brother told me so much about you, which is strange seeing as he was supposed to be dead. You even suggested that yourself. Is he the reason why you’re here?” He was glared at for a minute until a response was given.

“Guess there is no reason for me to lie, is there? Yes, he did influence my decision to come here, but not my decision to stay. This all would have been so much easier if Bruno just waited to visit you and kept his damn mouth shut.” The Philistine cursed, visibly frustrated.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you are not the only one with secrets detective.”

“I have a secret. Would you like to hear it?” The Philistine frowned.

“Sure, tell me.” He chuckled and tilted his head. 

“I’ll tell you, but you have to view my art first.” He pointed to the dresser that held his drawings.

“Are you really going to make me—”

“Oh, please look. A little peek will not hurt you, just look at them for me. I will tell you after you look, I promise.” The Philistine rolled his eyes at his pleading but gave in regardless, getting up and setting the files on the chair, going to the dresser. With the Philistine’s back turned to him, he stood up himself, though his visitor did not notice, he did not notice either when he walked to his bed nor when he began to adjust his pillow. He then walked up to the glass to see the Philistine holding up his latest artwork in silence; he needed to see his expression. He tapped on the glass, the Philistine turned to him, and the expression of anger he had promptly molded into one of alarm. He grinned at him.

“I will tell you my secret now,” he hummed in a low voice twirling his fingers, “Did you know there is only one medium I have never used for an art piece before…”

“Valentini, stay calm, don’t do anything stupid.” The Philistine said with trepidation in his voice as he slowly began to make his way to his cell.

“Hush, let me finish.” He put a finger to his lips, still smiling. “The only medium I had not used for an artwork is _my_ body.” The black fountain pen he had twirling between his fingers stopped, a few strands of pillow insides still caught on its sharp end. “Let’s change that today shall we.” He brought the pen to his arm.

“Stop!” The Philistine quickened his pace towards him.

“Oh, calm down will you, I’m just drawing the outlines. I’m not a Neanderthal.” From the palm of his hand to the bend of his elbow, he marked his skin with the black ink in abstract lines; the sharpened point of the pen tickled with its cold touch.

“Just listen to me okay, put it down. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s worth every second, detective. It’s been too long since I have created art, true art.” He glanced over his marked arms, the ink already starting to dry, “Didn’t you say before, that my arms were decorated in scars, like a mosaic? It wouldn’t hurt to add a few more.” He looked back up at the Philistine, positioning the pen at the beginning of the line at his palm. “Don’t look away. You need to see me create art. Appreciate me.”

“Don’t—”

He plunged the sharp end of the pen into his hand. The first drop of blood hit the floor, and the scent of freshly spilled blood filled his nose. He dug the pen further, making sure to stay lined up with the ink marking, with the proper incision made he began to follow the line down his arm. The point of a pen was surely different than the blade of the dagger. The dagger was designed to slice through flesh effortlessly. The pen, being made for paper, struggled to cut through the meat of his hand, even more so when he made his way down his arm. Leading him to take out the pen and create a new incision when he lost his way of the line, it was a painful process, but one that did not stop him. It would be worth it in the end, he could see through the mix of crimson blood and ebony ink cascading down his arm, that he was going to be a masterpiece. Solely focused on his work, he barely heard the shouts directed towards him, but he did catch a glance in his periphery that the Philistine had pushed the red button on the wall, just as he finished with his left arm. He moved to his right.

He was not left-handed, so it made it much more of a mess to follow the line and keep his hand steady, his grip on the pen loose due to the slickness of the blood drenching his hand. The pen got stuck on what appeared to be a clumped mass of tissue and veins, nearing the end of the line, which was a real challenge to draw through. In the effort of trying to cut through it, he veered off to the side and contorted his line. He hated mistakes; this slip leading his arms to be asymmetrical, but he decided that it was an artistic choice made by the artist. It would be beautiful in the end, mistake or not. At the end of his line, a bang on the glass almost messed him up for a second time. He paused his work, looking up to see the Philistine had banged his hand on the glass; apparently he had been doing so for some time guessing by the glass’s scratches.

“Look at me!” the Philistine shouted with a quaking voice. He obeyed, meeting the other pair of eyes, that held that same burning flame he knew so dearly, though his own gaze slowly drifted to the palm put against the glass. Inspecting it for a second or two, he looked back at his own palm and beamed. He dropped the bloody pen.

“Look…” he husked between chuckles. He put his bleeding palm to the Philistine’s, the glass kept them from touching. “We’re matching.” The Philistine did not return his smile. He began using his bloody hands to paint over the glass with his blood and the pen’s ink. Through the blood dripping down the glass, he could see he obtained two new audience members in the orderlies’ presence, one looked at him with horror; the other was caught up arguing with the Philistine. He paid them no mind and continued his work. The pain that had so profoundly stung into his arms was now an afterthought, his new focus being to transfer what he did on paper and charcoal to glass and blood. It was going to be just as beautiful as his arms. He was again pulled from his focus at the sound of a door creaking open, to his surprise he looked over to see it was his cell door that cracked open. It did not close. He stopped his work and picked the pen from off the blood-stained floor. 

“Get away from the door!” the orderly before the door shouted, though his back was turned to him. “We’re not trained to handle this; we need to wait for the guards to come. I don’t know how you got keys but stay away from—” Being so distracted by yelling at the Philistine, the orderly didn’t see him coming. He launched through the door in a heartbeat, the pen stabbing into the orderly’s neck before he could finish another thought. The spray of blood that splashed across his face was refreshing.

“Isaac!” the cry of the other orderly was nearly drowned out by the screams of the one wriggling in his grasp, he was considerably weaker than him. A man only tasked with handing out medication and cleaning up rooms, could only do so much against a fierce predator such as himself. He soon met a force that was equal if not greater to his own, in a punch to the face delivered by the Philistine himself. The sudden blow stunned him for a moment, but he was soon stable and turned to his new victim, leaving his previous one to crumble to the floor and into the arms of a comrade. 

“You want to fight me again, Philistine?! Let us, for old times’ sake!” he screamed, making to stab his enemy, though his wrist was caught before his weapon could make contact, and the other was soon restrained as well as he tried to punch back.

“I’ll handle him! Get out now!” the Philistine called to the orderlies, one in shock and the other bleeding out. With his clothes drenched in his comrade’s blood, he wordlessly dragged himself and the other orderly to and out the door. _Thank you for your cooperation._

“Now that we’re alone, tell me, how was my performance? Fantastic, no?” He chuckled, struggling against the hold of his adversary. The grip on his wrists tightened, and he cringed at the pressure being applied to his wounds; the reflexive reaction of him drawing back led to him being overpowered and pushed backward to slam into the wall, knocking the breath out of him momentarily. His arms were put to his sides as his adversary kept him pinned against the wall.

“Stop it, Valentini! What the hell are you doing?” he laughed, short and sweet before connecting with the Philistine’s gaze.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he wheezed.

“Dammit, I don’t want to hurt you! I’m trying to help you; I can’t help you like this.”

“You want to help me so badly…” his smile cracked. “But you don’t even know me. Why help a stranger?”

“I do know you, Valentini. You were right all along, I was lying to you. I do know you, from back then, from Union. I know you.” His smile left him, a blank expression taking its place.

“You know me…”

“Yes!”

“If you really know me… you’ll kill me.” The Philistine looked surprised; he really shouldn’t have.

“What?!”

“I said…” his grin began to return. “You will kill me. Do it.” 

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“Oh, but I want you to. You have done it dozens of times before; if you killed me back in Union, you can kill me here. Kill me. Make me bleed more than I ever have.” He pushed back, though he was kept restrained.

“Stop, fighting me, I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”

“You son of a bitch, kill me!” He threw his knee forward into his adversary’s gut, the restraint on his arms loosed as the Philistine stumbled back, but he held his ground.

“I’m not fucking killing you!”

“KILL ME!” With a new burning anger, he twisted his arms, the sudden motion causing the point of the pen to graze the Philistine’s face who stepped back at the attack. The grip loosened on his wrists, and he did not take the chance for granted, stabbing the pen into his adversary’s shoulder, who cursed in pain. The ensuing struggle for dominance had them toppling over the metal chair, they both fell to the ground with the Philistine still gripping his wrists and the file’s contents spilling over the floor. In the fall, he was fortunate enough to be the one to land on top, he was smaller than his adversary, but with how the Philistine refused to release his wrists, he could not find the leverage he needed to throw him off. “You don’t want to kill me, that’s too bad.” He tore the pen out of the shoulder, and the Philistine watched with widened eyes as it was brought to his temple. “Do you want me to kill you instead?” The Philistine cringed as the pen’s sharp end, dug into his flesh, and veered downward. 

“Now you know that won’t do any good for you.” Tugging out the pen, he watched with a half-lidded eye as blood slowly seeped from the wound. With an ever-growing grin, he leaned down and ran his tongue over the wound, lapping up the blood, the Philistine tasted salty yet sweet on his tongue as he felt him quiver beneath him. His lips drew next to his ear. “If you were to die, can you imagine how your little girl would sob?” he brought the pen to the Philistine’s neck. The hand holding the pen was pushed back into the side of his neck, even though it was not the sharp end, the jab to his throat had him coughing and pulling back, nearly falling to the side; his wrists were held at bay. “You have that same burning fire within you, you’ll need it to kill me. Just like before.” 

“I already told you, I’m not going to kill you. I know you don’t want to die; you’re just saying that now because you think death will end all the pain. I understand that, I’ve been there, but begging me to kill you won’t be what helps you. I want to help you, killing you won’t. You’re bleeding out, you need—”

“I need you to kill me! If you are not going to do it on your own, I’ll make you!” With dexterous fingers, he flipped the pen around, the pointed end facing him. He brought his head down to meet the sharp end of the pen; it penetrated deep into his eye or where it would have been if he still had it. The scar tissue provided a tough layer of resistance, but it quickly fell to his growing pressure. He felt the hand tugging at his wrist, to try and pull it away, grinning through the agony, he used his other hand to grip the one holding his wrist. He pushed the hand upwards along with the pen. “Look, you’re almost there, can you feel it?!” he hissed, the pain throbbing stronger.

“Stop dammit!” Desperation had crept into the voice and seeped into the eyes. “Please, I don’t want to kill you, Stefano!” He pushed harder. 

“Y-Yes you do!” he hadn’t expected his voice to crack. “You have to.”

“The first artwork I saw of yours was William Baker, you shot him point-blank in the temple.” He froze, his body rigid and still as he stared down, meeting the warm eyes of the man, he continued. “You displayed him in a blue film, right next to one of your red rooms, which held a picture of his corpse on a counter. I found my way to your studio mansion, where you gave me a phone call, you just chuckled before hanging up. I walked through a red-curtained hallway leading to double doors, they led me to a room. The room where I first saw you.” The man’s hands gently guided his own away from the pen embedded in his head, his body relaxed as he did so. His hand released his wrist, and began calmly pulling out the pen, he continued to speak. “A man had just run out another set of doors, before I saw you. You appeared in a burst of blue flames, camera and dagger in hand as you created art. I was frightened, so much that when I tried to keep hidden, I accidentally knocked over a painting next to me. That had gotten your attention, and I was scared shitless, I didn’t have any weapons or way to attack you, so I could only hide. I made it out of sight just as you stood where I had moments before.” The pen came out with a final twist and was tossed to the other side of the room. Such a small utensil had done so much harm.

“I was able to take a good look at you then, though, I couldn’t see your face, your hair was in the way. I made a mental picture in my head of what you could have looked like. When I actually saw your face for the first time...” the same hand that relieved him of the pen, combed through his black hair and placed behind his ear, revealing his face in all its scarred charm. “I was nearly spot-on, but I didn’t account for the camera lens eye. You had left the room then, but I had a gut feeling I would see you again, and I did. Our game had begun in that room, and it had continued all throughout Union as I chased you down to get the CORE, a little girl with a big imagination. We fought over her in the Grand Theater. That was where I killed you, or at least I thought I did. Somehow, we both made it out of that hell alive... Who knew we would find each other again out here?” Sebastian smiled at him; it drew attention away from all the blood that stained his face and made his eyes beam with a comforting warmth. There was a moment when he was unsure of what to do. He did not need to do anything, Sebastian did it for him, gripping his wrists to stop the bleeding.

“I know you, Stefano Valentini.” He found his voice to speak.

“I know.” 

The beep of the electronic lock sounded behind him.

“Don’t you fucking move, Valentini!” at the sudden thunderous noise, it was natural for him to look over his shoulder. 

It had been a long, long time since he heard the deafening bang of a gun going off. It had been an even longer time since he had been shot with a bullet, but he could remember the burning agony that came with it as it quickly spread through his side. His adrenaline fading and blood loss finally taking its toll, he fell over and collapsed to the ground. The grip on his hands never released even as he fell, he supposed the man was screaming with how terribly his hands were shaking, it was easy to tell even though his ears were ringing. However, the grip was forced to let itself go, when more guards came and were able to pry the man away. He reached out for him. He met thin air. That is when his body went numb. He let himself lay in a pool of blood as the corners of his vision grew dark. It was an impossible feat for him to simply look up, but a greater force allowed him to do so. Through his blackening vision, he saw the guard glaring down at him. He did not see the kick coming before it bashed into his skull.

The world went dark.


End file.
